


Fics and Fears

by 12drakon



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Additional Warnings in Chapter Notes, Alien Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Chains, Crack, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Fourth Wall, Interrogation, Mindfrag, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Prisoner of War, Psychological Torture, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tentacles, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 74,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/12drakon/pseuds/12drakon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a skilled interrogator, Starscream threatens the stubbornly resisting Bumblebee with his worst fear. Or so it seems, until Megatron enters the scene.</p>
<p>In addition to what any Autobot can expect from his ruthless Decepticon captors, Bumblebee's fears center on the private fantasies that he has been turning into stories. As Bumblebee stays on the Nemesis, his worry-dreams start to come true in dark and threatening ways. He struggles to navigate the thriving culture of stories the Decepticons use for war, propaganda and, of course, interface.</p>
<p>What it means to triumph in adversity transforms as Bumblebee sees the war through diverse stories. To endure, to survive, to keep his dignity - and to laugh, to tell better stories, and to make a difference in the world! - he seeks the third way between defeat and defeating others. But Megatron has his own plans for his captive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Little Scout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ultharkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/gifts).



> Big thanks to [Ultharkitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty/works) for beta reading and discussions.
> 
> There are additional warnings and pairings within chapter notes. This is a complex story in a messy moral landscape. There are no clear heroes, and peace won't mean a decisive clean victory. Fics and Fears is for people who like a mixture of dark crack and serious issues. Also, chains and tentacles.
> 
> [Time units (click for details on the Cybertronian binary time system)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4865111):  
> \- Nanoklik, klik, breem, joor roughly mean a moment, minute, ten minutes, hour.  
> \- Cycle is the Cybertronian day of sixteen joors, and has four shifts. Robots need to recharge for about a shift each cycle to stay healthy.  
> \- Kilocycle is eight cycles, similar to human week.
> 
> Big thanks to Anonymous, [DarthKrande](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthKrande/pseuds/DarthKrande/works), [Ficmog](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ficmog/pseuds/Ficmog/works), [dragonofdispair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair/works), [FHC_Lynn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FHC_Lynn/pseuds/FHC_Lynn/works), and [Rizobact](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact/works) for advice, individual chapter discussions, RP, and an occasional apocalypse in what-if scenarios.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee/Megatron, Starscream, Seekers.  
> Tags: Torture, Non-Con, Forced Overload, Mindfrag, Non-Con Bondage, Fear of Heights, A Can of Scraplets

They dropped him again, and Bumblebee screamed into the rushing wind. He hated the sound his vocalizer produced, like a mechanimal keen; hated that he could not stop screaming. He knew that he would not die yet, that they would catch him to ask once more about the coordinates. But the weightless spinning, the helpless terror of falling through the void stole his control. So the scout screamed, thrashed around, and desperately yanked on the cuffs behind his back, as if there was something for him to grasp, if only he could free his hands.

A heavy chain tied to Bumblebee’s knee clanged as he thrashed, and the disk-like device at its end added a few more dents to his armor. When Bumblebee was so close to the rocky ground he thought the ‘Cons might let him fall all the way this time, he finally heard a jet engine. A Seeker caught the device at the end of the chain in a magnetic grapple. He pulled the scout around a narrowing spiral that killed his momentum, and glitched his grounder’s gyroscopes, making all his systems violently ill.

Still trembling, overheated despite the cold air, Bumblebee was lifted to the edge of the landing deck at the top of the Nemesis. Everything hurt. Gravity conspired with his torturers: it added the insult of hanging helpless and sprawled the wrong way up to the injury of one knee holding all his weight. The Seeker hovered in place as if tethered to the ship, then dipped his wings to make Bumblebee swing on the chain. Drops of energon from his knee and wrists drew arcs as they fell, there for a moment, then gone with the wind. Mountains teetered far below as if the Earth were overcharged, and Bumblebee dry-heaved, nothing left in his tanks.

The scout tried to focus his optics elsewhere, and looked at the group of Seekers and their commander, who stood on the deck exchanging appreciative comments about the show. Starscream stepped to the edge and caught Bumblebee by a door wing, almost twisting it out of its socket. It wasn’t the first time. He braced himself against the pain and managed to stay silent, even when a wind gust threatened to break his door hinge. The Seeker holding the chain pulled up a notch with frightening precision, making the scout’s optics level with the air commander’s. Starscream smirked, but his tone was dangerously bored when he asked, “Coordinates?"

Bumblebee shook his head, making his vertigo worse. Two breems, his chrono said. Two breems more to make sure. Then the Autobots would finish evacuating their temporary base to a new location; he didn’t know where; and then this should be over, one way or another. Two breems were going to feel like two vorns, but he could hold out.

Starscream also seemed to conclude that Bumblebee could hold out, because he muttered, “A waste of time.” He scratched his long chin thoughtfully, and beckoned a Seeker from the group idling nearby.

 

***

“Stop.”

Bumblebee onlined his optics and, with effort, quit emitting a feeble beep-whirr. Whimpering, that’s what it was, and he’d only just noticed he’d been making the sound. He’d failed to notice the new arrival, too. The two Seekers above him froze as if turned off, like the well-schooled drones they were, and stopped slowly pulling his knees apart by the chains. It still hurt. The chains conducted every vibration of the Seekers' engines to Bumblebee’s abused frame. His hips were almost dislocated and his knee assemblies barely held their integrity. He felt warm energon trickling down from his hips to his chest and then face, and heard it dripping to the deck.

“Megatron!” Starscream screeched, then added, “My lord,” in the tone of a curse, and stomped his foot in frustration. “He was about to talk!”

The scout wanted to protest the lie. He’d uttered no words to his torturers so far, and wasn’t about to start. Or was he? Pain, he could take. He thought he could. But this...

Before the two Seekers holding Bumblebee’s chains had started pulling, Starscream had stuck a claw inside the transformation seam on the scout’s door wing, pried a side view mirror out, and twisted it off. Bumblebee had watched, sickly riveted, as Starscream dropped the mirror into the mech-sized glass jar of scraplets that Seekers had brought to the deck. The ravenous things had surged over the morsel, and in a few nanokliks it had disappeared.

Why would the ‘Cons even keep scraplets?!

Ratchet could manufacture simple parts like mirrors, but not a whole leg. Starscream would cripple Bumblebee forever, and his ruined vocalizer had been bad enough even if he could still communicate, but if he couldn’t walk, couldn’t transform, couldn’t fight he was useless useless useless and Optimus would not want that no no Optimus would want him to talk instead and...

Wait. Megatron had said, ‘Stop.’ It probably wasn’t mercy, but it was a pause. Bumblebee would keep his loyalties and his limbs for a while yet. He willed himself to pull together inside, to retreat to his peaceful coping place beyond the reach of Decepticon claws.

Megatron walked to Bumblebee and put his massive hand on scout’s thigh, sending jolts of pain through that knee and hip. Bumblebee winced, or the parts he could move did - useless parts, like his cuffed hands and his door wings that Arcee liked to call ‘expressive’. He could not get away from that Pit-spawned touch; all he managed for his thigh was a tiny tremble and a sharper pain.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Megatron drawled, stroking his hand a little way up and down Bumblebee’s plating, his palm so large it had almost nowhere to go on the thigh. “Optimus Prime just called. The Autobots have moved. The scout wouldn’t know where.”

Bumblebee froze, alarm fighting relief. He’d done it, he’d held out long enough. Now what? Did Optimus try to negotiate for him? If the ‘Cons weren’t interrogating him anymore, why weren’t they letting him down already?

The last question was answered when the warlord smacked his hand between Bumblebee’s spread legs, striking the obscenely exposed and available interface panel. His voice effortlessly louder than the scout’s beep-whimper, Megatron said, “You have failed to get information in time, Starscream. But you have quite… a setup, here. Everybody is dismissed, except you two with the chains. And you two: don’t move, stay quiet.”

Starscream snickered. His spare Seekers laughed coarsely, and their loud flock left through the deck’s inner door. Their commentary was lost as Bumblebee’s audios filled with glitchy static. He reset his audios and optics in time to hear a whir of transformation, and to see the evening sun’s red gleam on Megatron’s knife, almost as long as Bumblebee’s whole body. The scout didn’t think it was for execution. Worse. He tried to brace himself. He couldn’t - he beeped again, then babbled hopelessly, a random permutation of a few short Neocybex words in urgent binary trills, ::No-no-no-stop-stop-wait-no-wait-wait-stop…::

He talked, but he wasn’t begging, he wasn’t! Protesting wasn’t begging, right?

The only answer to the protest was that the knife struck between Bumblebee’s legs. Only the very tip penetrated. It hit the small gap next to the interface panel, breaking the panel’s lock; and then again, on the other side. Before Bumblebee was done screaming, Megatron got down on one knee and lifted the scout’s head and shoulders to lay on his other knee. Resting his weight on something gave relief to Bumblebee’s legs, but the touch made his dry tanks heave anew, and he almost squirmed off the knee. Megatron’s left hand cradled Bumblebee’s head and one shoulder, a torturer’s restraint that mocked a lover’s caress.

Megatron leaned low, his ugly scarred face too close, his ex-vents disgustingly hot. “I know what you want, scout,” Megatron whispered into Bumblebee’s audio, and stroked his cheek with one claw, the knife still extended over that hand into the darkening sky.

Flight deck floodlights turned on, but all the scout could see were smelter-red optics, a jumble of gleaming armor edges, and a patch of uncaring alien sky between his energon-splattered panel and his captor’s knife. Megatron whispered, “The cortical patch, scout. I’ve been there in your processor. That file you watch and edit every night before you recharge? I made a copy.”

Just like it did at the beginning of the file, Megatron’s claw slid to the sensitive cables and wires in Bumblebee’s neck. The file branched into many scenarios, but every script shared the same first scene. It worked too well to alter. It was a guaranteed trigger for a jolt of thrill, the quickest way to raise charge, the sure-fire space bridge that took Bumblebee to a faraway dream world. Megatron’s gentle, gentle hand would ghost over the sensory wires on Bumblebee’s neck, caress under his chin, trace the bulge of his vocalizer…

Megatron was doing it for real. This... This was beyond wrong, beyond anything Bumblebee could possibly withstand. He’d answer any questions, but nobody was asking any more. He would beg to be thrown into the scraplet jar, whole or part by part, if he had any hope the warlord would listen.

The scout had started that file shortly after Tyger Pax. Ratchet had treated all the physical wounds, but Bumblebee couldn’t recharge - he stayed on alert, cycling through the images of his capture and torture. After weeks without proper defragmentation, his processor must have glitched. The recurrent nightmares were replaced by scenes also featuring Megatron, so shocking they overrode fears, worries, and every other feeling; so hot Bumblebee instantly overloaded, then fell into blissful deep recharge for a whole planetary cycle.

He had awoken healthier, but horrified, and swore never to do anything that shameful again. Another few weeks of recharge-less misery had tortured him into a repetition. Eventually he had accumulated plenty of excuses for the fact that his recharge protocols had a fantastical kinky Megatron as a permanent resident. He wouldn’t overload every time anymore, but the mixture of fear and arousal somehow put his messed-up processor into just the right state to initiate defragmentation. He would wake up sane and in control, and that was what mattered.

The scout had kept the scenes that worked well in a file, locked behind his strongest firewalls. Over time, the file had grown. Bumblebee had found he liked to pick at the file’s code, edit its video and audio, and rearrange details just so - making improvised scenes into better stories. It never hurt anyone or the Autobot cause, he’d kept telling himself. He still hated Megatron by day. And he’d never shared these ‘harmless fantasies’ with anyone. Until now.

Bumblebee didn’t struggle, didn’t make a sound, paralyzed with horror. Megatron’s hand moved to trace the transformation seams on his door wings, the knife finally retracting. There had never been any knives in any scenes in Bumblebee’s worry-dream file. Not his thing. Sometimes there were cuffs or chains, but always on the other mech - in the versions were Megatron was a prisoner, and Bumblebee his guard.

“We’ll fast-forward to the good parts, shall we?” Megatron said with a chuckle, and opened Bumblebee’s interface panel, broken locks unresisting. “You are smoking hot, my little scout!” he quoted from the file.

Megatron had always been a good actor. Now he played closely to the script, matching his character’s melodramatic breathy tone, but adding a dose of mockery as his own sick edit.

The scout tried to focus on pain instead; it was still there, and plenty of it, but at the same time he felt numb, as if pain didn’t matter anymore. What Megatron said was literally true. Bumblebee’s whole hip array was too hot: motors in overdrive fought the pull of the chains, pistons strained, and nanites swarmed in to repair tears. The harsh lights on the deck left nothing to the imagination. Bumblebee saw condensation vapor rising from the edges of his valve, and from the housing of his retracted spike.

If only Bumblebee could offline; if only he had convinced Ratchet to install that self-termination code from spec ops mechs!

“Smoking hot, and so wet!” Megatron recited, in the same mock-aroused tone, relentlessly following one of Bumblebee’s scripts. He slowly pushed one finger into Bumblebee’s valve, and added conversationally: “In fact, you’re quite dry, but the show must go on.”

The valve’s calipers spasmed against the unwanted intrusion, and Megatron lifted one optic ridge with an understanding grin. Megatron had said, ‘ _I know what you want, scout_ ’. But he’d produced so much propaganda, had even written a couple of books before the war… Of course he would understand the scout wanted none of what his character in the file wanted. And yet, and yet - Bumblebee had made it all up, and came back for more every night, and worked out such details!

He sobbed. Maybe he deserved this.

Megatron twisted his finger just so, pressed a knuckle against the dense cluster of sensors by the front of the valve, and sent a hard pulse of electromagnetic field through his hand. Bumblebee tensed his head and shoulders against the warlord’s unyielding grip, resisting the signals that shot through his sensory net, trying and failing not to feel pleasure. Megatron’s grin grew; he pressed and tapped the node in a sequence that worked the best, that Bumblebee had perfected over many nights when his hands weren’t tied. That nobody was supposed to know until he met a lover.

Except Bumblebee could never tap that hard, or keep at it that long. He’d ease up the pressure or wiggle the node away before the sensation overwhelmed him. Megatron’s digit, shockingly solid in this real world, held the rhythm that quickly took Bumblebee to the brink, to the edge where he’d turn back if he were alone. Just like he thought it would happen, like his character experienced in the file, the pleasure grew beyond that edge, because Megatron would not stop and Bumblebee could not move his valve even a little bit away. The sensation grew and grew until it went off script, changing into a brand of pain. The relentless burn radiated from that node in Bumblebee’s valve and spread through his whole sensory net.

Bumblebee screamed and tried to thrash. He pushed against Megatron’s hand and knee, and pulled on the chains so hard something popped in his leg. The taps on his node grew even stronger; in time with them, the EM field pulsed against the overwhelmed sensors in his valve; and the rhythm sped up, taps turning into vibrations. His frame crossed another threshold. Pain transformed into something beyond description, feedback loops cascading overclocked input through all his sensors, his spark, and his processor. Bumblebee overloaded. Small lightnings of charge shot from all his transformation seams and shorted into Megatron and the chains. Bumblebee’s vocalizer glitched and crackled with static. His optics flashed with nonsense lights as if he dived head first into a supernova, then switched off.

His processor didn’t reboot, but his consciousness disconnected from the world, as if he was dreaming, the dream’s file isolated on a stand-alone server. The server’s firewalls kept out all the data about his frame, other mechs, their factions, and their wars. He was in the light, and all were one.

Then Bumblebee felt an engine rev up as its vibrations shot pain through his knee and hip, and heard a Seeker’s hoarse whoop, “Whoa, hot!” and Megatron’s low growl.

With a jolt, Bumblebee was back on Earth: an Autobot captive suspended over the Nemesis deck between two Seekers. Who had a perfect view of his interface equipment, freshly overloaded under Megatron’s hands.

Bumblebee’s scout training made him reboot his optics, audios, and other sensors so he would keep collecting data on the enemy. He couldn’t remember why. Megatron wiped his hand on Bumblebee’s thigh. Now there was wetness, then cold, then dread. The warlord stood up. The weight of the scout’s frame once more pulled on his legs. His scream came out as static.

“Seekers - let him down,” Megatron ordered gruffly, and Bumblebee fell to the deck head first - with a thud, a clang of chains, and a burst of static for a cry. He wished he could fall through the floor, all the way to the rocks far below. The scout wondered if he could roll over the nearby edge of the deck. But he was too damaged to move, even to pull his legs closed; besides, the ‘Cons would just catch him, as before.

The Seekers transformed into root form and stood at attention. Megatron carelessly gathered Bumblebee and the chains into a heap of hurt, and said, “Let’s go somewhere more comfortable, shall we, scout?”

Bumblebee thought he would not be comfortable anywhere. Ever again.

Megatron, carrying Bumblebee under his left arm like a sack of loose parts, was almost by the deck’s inner door when the scout heard the unmistakeable low hum of a fusion cannon heating up. Megatron paused, and Bumblebee hoped, but no. The warlord only turned around and shot one of the Seekers through the chest.

“Your order was to stay quiet,” he said belatedly, then kept walking.

Before falling into stasis lock, Bumblebee’s muddled processor supplied him with one last incongruous thought: that Megatron couldn’t tell the Seekers apart and had shot the wrong one.


	2. Thinking With Ground Bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock Out likes hands-on work. Bumblebee faces new fears and feels the need to immerse himself in a story. Megatron’s hands are gentle in the dream world, yet he wears handcuffs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee/Megatron, Knock Out  
> Tags: Psychological Torture, Mindfrag, Non-Con Bondage, Sticky, Teasing/Overload Denial, Oral, Ground-Bridge Sex.

All Bumblebee’s systems rebooted at once, unnaturally fast. That’s how medical stasis terminated. He’d always imagined that’s how non-sentient machines felt when you turned them on. But he knew that outside of his imagination, these machines didn’t have feelings; and now he didn’t, either. He was so numb. He ran a test to see if he’d been hacked or drugged, and when the diagnostics came back negative, he asked himself a more general question, “What’s wrong with me?” He used to wonder that a lot, for a long while after Tyger Pax.

Many things were probably wrong, but at least, nothing actively hurt. His legs throbbed with small dull aches of self-repair, and something… tickled his feet? He onlined his optics. Oh, a wide medscan beam was now at his ankle level and slowly creeping up through his frame.

Predictably, at the other end of the beam was the Decepticon doctor, wielding his built-in hand scanner. Knock Out was staring at the scanner’s data stream on his wrist, more fascinated with test results than with his patient. Bumblebee had time to ask himself another general question, “Now what?” He even had time to try and scan for some data of his own, for intel and for the purpose of running away. Not that he really felt curious, devoted to his work, or eager for escape. Or even guilty that his emotional matrix engaged none of these feelings, when his memory banks told him what they should have been. He would be a good drone, following automatic subroutines and military training. Habits.

He was standing. Back when he cared it would have been good news that he was capable. Was it yesterday he’d been afraid his hips and knees had been ruined? Chrono check: yes, now was the mid-cycle of the next planetary rotation after his capture. If he could go outside, he’d see the local star or feel its radiation through the clouds. Humans quaintly called their sun ‘The Sun’, and human friends called Bumblebee’s finish ‘sunny’, so he’d grown attached to the unremarkable yellow dwarf.

Also predictably, he wasn’t going anywhere, because something else unremarkable he was attached to was a standard heavy medical examination rack. Ratchet had one, and he’d tell Bumblebee to stand just like this, arms on the handles, legs spread wide. Where were Ratchet and the rest of the Autobots now? Good thing he didn’t know, but were they working on his rescue? Could Bumblebee online his blasters? Checking; of course not. Knock Out’s finish was blindingly shiny, even indoors. Wait, Bumblebee’s own was too. The myriad cracks, tears, and dents all over his frame had been patched, welded, and pulled out. Were there security cams? There and there and there, the three that he could detect quickly; the ‘Cons weren’t hurting for resources. What’s with his knee and hip arrays? Diagnostic: repaired, fully operational. Even the locks of his interface panel were fixed. By his HUD, the missing side view mirror that Starscream’s pet scraplets had eaten was his most serious problem. Yeah, right.

Bumblebee might stay quiet and look patient from the outside, especially compared with Smokescreen. He might feel apathetic. But scouting protocols always made Bumblebee’s attention jump around, unless hyperfocus was triggered by something both new and important. For example, the shackles holding his wrists and ankles couldn’t also hold his attention: probably important, but not new. He understood everything about them. They were round, narrow magnetic bands, too strong for him to break, emitting light of the kind a human with a poor sense of story mood or a dark sense of humor would also call ‘sunny’.

Longer bands made of the same tech circled his waist and helm. He could still turn his head, but the room had nothing interesting to look at. When he and the snobbish Decepticon doctor bothered to exchange any words at all in addition to shots, Knock Out twisted every other utterance into silly, flamboyant torture innuendo. You’d think his medbay would feature rusty saws, energon-covered body parts, and other props as clichéd as his speech. But it was clean, tidy, and Decepticon-style, despondently utilitarian - admittedly, also a cliché.

Thinking of clichés. Knock Out finished his scan, looked Bumblebee in the optics with a crooked smirk, and said, “Wakey wakey!”

Just like Smokescreen’s report, then. Cute… not. Bumblebee stayed quiet, not even glaring, waiting for Knock Out to go through his inane script, if he must. Worse things could be happening.

The doctor pouted. “What, have you nothing to say? ‘Where am I,’ or, ‘What are you doing to me?’ should be easy and fun. How about my favorite, ‘I’ll never talk!’ Work with me here, would you, scout?”

No way, thought Bumblebee. He said, ::It doesn’t even make sense. I’ve been awake for two kliks. I know I am in your medbay. You’re doing repairs and scans. And it doesn’t matter anymore if I talk.::

His drone buzz-for-words perfectly matched his apathy. The coded sound he produced wasn’t expressive like normal speech, but his friends had eventually learned his tells. They would hear if Bumblebee was sad or glad by small changes in rhythm and frequency. Knock Out wouldn’t know. Probably wouldn’t care.

Or maybe he would, if only to check if his jibes found their mark. Knock Out’s expressive face looked sincerely annoyed for a nanoklik. Then his ironic, put-upon grin returned and he retorted, “Look who’s so very picky about continuity errors!”

More nonsense, thought Bumblebee with a sigh. But he froze at what Knock Out said next: “You shouldn’t be the one throwing stones, ‘little scout.’”

This! This was new. And important. Bumblebee’s numbness ended as abruptly as his medical stasis had earlier. He was flooded with dread, other dreadful feelings, and even more dreadful thoughts. Knock Out knew what had happened on the flight deck, not by implication from his patient’s wounds, but word for word, and he found it amusing, and the whole Decepticon army probably knew by now, of course they would, Seekers were such sharers, that one who survived had probably kept a recording, made from his vantage point right over Bumblebee’s interface array, or maybe everybody could watch feeds from the security cameras, and oh! would other ‘Cons be inspired by their leader’s show-n-tell, say, Knock Out here must have used the same wax on Bumblebee as he did on himself, and that involved way too much touching when Bumblebee was out, the creep did like shiny automobiles, and he was stepping closer now, why, why? If Bumblebee begged really nicely would Knock Out please find a saw, rusty or not, and cut his head off?

Bumblebee tugged ineffectively at his bonds, shuttered his optics to avoid Knock Out’s knowing - and growing - grin, and emitted a weak, “Bleep?”

“What errors, you ask?” Knock Out sounded very amused. Bumblebee opened his optics in surprise. That sound he’d just made wasn’t even a word. He’d archived Knock Out’s first phrase away from his working memory, and had to pull it back out. Concentrate! He wasn’t in a position to assume that any part of what the doctor said was idle chatter. Or that it wouldn’t turn into something less idle.

Bumblebee was not holding up his part of the dialogue, so Knock Out replied to himself, “All kinds! You make all kinds of errors, and so many. Once our energon shortage was over, Starscream and I played a drinking game about that story of yours, with ground bridges. He took an engex shot for every physics error and I took one for every anatomy error.”

Bumblebee’s time stretched, like it did during the worst moments of battle. Not only had Knock Out seen a recording from yesterday, where Megatron had… raped Bumblebee, that’s what the right word was, and with the running commentary on how the scout had secretly wanted it. Decepticons knew better than to believe things their leader said in general, and to a captive enemy in particular. Everything was different if they had seen that file for themselves.

Knock Out chuckled, shook his head as if savoring the good memories, and continued, “I was losing at first, you know. I tried to argue that what you kept doing with Megatron’s spike and valve and two toys from his front and back was a geometry error, not anatomy error. You’d need arms twice as long as yours to reach around Megatron’s torso if you hang over his shoulder.”

Bumblebee swallowed a whimper. No way was he explaining to Knock Out that he sometimes liked to imagine himself taller.

“Starscream made me drink for that one. Because, as he said” - Knock Out made his voice high and screechy - “The scout would also need an extra elbow, and elbows are anatomy!” He laughed. “But I convinced him the scene with Megatron’s spike and two fingers in your valve at once was legitimate ignorance. It was a hard case to argue! It would be too boring to use the geometry defense again, but Megatron’s two fingers are almost as wide as your whole interface panel. You could have figured that one out, scout,” Knock Out chided. “I told Starscream, ‘If the scout wants to imagine our lord with microscopic equipment, it doesn’t contradict what he can see from the outside. Just because we know, doesn’t mean he does.’ Screamer agreed, if only because he thought Megatron with a microspike was hilarious. Curious fact: my creators wanted me to become a lawyer before I chose to be a doctor. I’ve always wanted to do something more… hands-on.”

Knock Out put his hand on Bumblebee’s forearm, and the scout shuddered and yanked on the shackle before he steadied himself.  _Concentrate; keep in control_.  The creepy hand stayed where it was, and Knock Out leaned closer and lowered his voice. “In what passes here for the so-called real life, if Megatron is doing your valve, keep it to just a finger. Note the singular. Doctor’s advice.”

Knock Out stepped aside. Bumblebee ex-vented, relieved that the hand was gone, but still disgusted. The Decepticreep doctor was sure to use what he learned about his patient’s anatomy in his sick games.

“Though it is not your choice anymore.” Knock Out shrugged. “But back to our game! Once we were at the scene with a tiny ground bridge up your valve, Starscream had no chance.” Knock Out smiled, reminiscing.

Automatically, Bumblebee tried to close his legs. He recalled he’d do that, or cross his arms, if a scary medical procedure was coming up in Ratchet’s medbay. Ratchet would go, “Yip-yip-yip!” then grumble about standing still, and threaten to tie him if he didn’t behave.

Right. Being tied up. Bumblebee had to escape, now. To an uninhabited moon. Not only did the mechs here know he was a pervy glitch; they also thought him hilariously stupid.

Bumblebee was confused and lost. He badly needed a break to sort it all out, but he could hardly expect such a mercy. Did Knock Out fix and detail him for… What was it he said? ‘Not your choice anymore.’ Or were the Decepticons preparing him for an old-fashioned public execution? More importantly: how could he mess up the ‘ _Thinking with Ground Bridges_ ’ part of his file so badly?

‘Extra elbows.’ His spark clenched painfully. The world felt so unfair just now, like that time he’d had no t-cog and tried to chase Knock Out. He’d kept the ground bridge scenario in plain text for ease; it had been one of his favorites; and as such, he had read and edited it so, so many times. Wait, that thing about errors may be new, but no, it wasn’t important right now! Idling in stories when the going got tough was just… a habit. An automatic subroutine; now a distraction. Was he too weak to keep his fears at bay without it?

At least, he thought grimly, the ‘Cons won’t be reenacting _‘Ground Bridges’_ with him. Because, physics and anatomy. And continuity, whatever that was.

“Ah, don’t look so sad, scout!” Knock Out said with mock pity. “The last part was rather hot. Or did it just seem so hot because I read it so drunk? Let me see!”

Bumblebee squirmed and blurted, ::Don’t!::

Knock Out laughed, said, “Oh please,” and dimmed his optics, as mechs would when reading longer HUD messages. At least the doctor wasn’t sadistic enough to read out loud.

And then it turned out he was.

 

> _Their lips parted. Both moaned needily. Bumblebee leaned down. His nimble black fingers slid the vibro-ring over the glistening tip of Megatron’s silvery spike. Down, up again, down. The scout’s other hand reached around the warlord’s hip…_

Bumblebee’s spark clenched anew - ‘extra elbow’! But Knock Out didn’t change his steady, cultured tone. He was neither voice-acting nor taunting, just… reading. Bumblebee felt painfully, perversely weird hearing these words, _his_ words, from the vocalizer of another mech. A bout of nausea made him notice his tanks had been filled while he was in stasis. Who knew when the ‘Cons would feed him again? He needed the energy. He fought down the dizzy feeling by shuttering his optics tight, and concentrating on the story. It was, after all, engaging. A favorite.

 

> _...and slid the vibro-rod around the edge of Megatron’s overheated, trembling valve. The scout’s two hands kept moving up and down, round and round, in perfect harmony. Faster and faster. Megatron panted. His vents could not keep up. His fists shook, but he kept his cuffed hands down at the front, as they’d agreed. And said nothing, as they’d agreed._
> 
> _Bumblebee sensed Megatron’s raw, burning desire. The warlord wanted to grab and hold. He wanted to press their frames together in a rough violent embrace. He wanted to penetrate and to be taken._
> 
> _Not yet! The scout kept his touch as light as ever. Megatron growled. The sound echoed from the empty brig’s walls. His engine revved up in desperation. His charge mounted, very close to overload._
> 
> _Bumblebee froze. He hadn’t moved a strut until Megatron’s charge dissipated just a bit. Then, the scout made a tricky head-over-heels jump down from his perch on Megatron’s shoulder. He stood before the warlord, trembling from almost unbearable charge of his own, and said: “Ten!”_
> 
> _The warlord reeled. His optics were dim as dying embers. He took a blind step backward. Megatron’s hips helplessly pushed his spike into the empty air, and he almost lost balance. He leaned on the wall, next to two green swirls of their miniature ground bridge. The warlord looked like Bumblebee felt: delirious, undone. They’d won their game, by their agreed-upon rules. Now, for their prize._
> 
> _Bumblebee subspaced the vibro-toys and took out the bridge’s remote. He sent the first preset of relative coordinates. The entrance of the bridge disappeared from the wall. The scout tugged on Megatron’s cuffs. The warlord slid down the wall to sit on the floor. His legs parted in a trusting and wanton display. Bumblebee lowered his face mask, kneeled by Megatron, and slowly took the tip of the warlord’s over-pressurized spike into his parted lips._
> 
> _Bumblebee tilted his head to look at the portal’s exit swirling on the wall. At first, nothing happened. Megatron’s hips shuddered violently. He was about to lose control. Bumblebee put a steadying hand on the warlord’s overheated thigh. Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his head. He tasted tangy lubricant and felt prickles of charge. Megatron’s spike went past Bumblebee’s eager lips, over the dam of his trembling glossa, down his intake - and out of the bridge’s exit on the wall. Green lights coruscated on the spike and made their mixed fluids shine._
> 
> _The scout moaned. So gorgeous!_
> 
> _He could not wait anymore. Bumblebee moved his mouth (and the ground bridge’s entrance, its coordinates now linked to the back of his tongue) away from Megatron’s spike. He sent the second preset of coordinates from the remote, and the ground bridge’s exit relocated. He unlocked and opened his interface panel and looked down to check. The green swirling portal was in place, right over his valve. He even got the polarity right, this time._
> 
> _Bumblebee lowered his head again. Megatron’s spike caressed his sensitive lips, deliciously slid over his glossa, then entered the ground bridge - and finally, finally pushed into his hot, dripping-wet valve. It hit the sensors at the edge of the valve perfectly. Small lightnings of charge shorted into the valve’s calipers deeper down, and made them squeeze and pulse with pleasure._
> 
> _Bumblebee slowly moved his mouth all the way down. And pushed Megatron’s spike all the way to the deepest sensor node in his valve. He heard his own muffled scream from two places. The ground bridge made it so both his openings conducted the sound waves of his ecstasy. Megatron must have felt it as double vibrations; he roared his pleasure in response._
> 
> _The scout slowly slid his mouth off Megatron’s spike. Along the way, he tilted his head just so, which put more pressure on a new set of sensors at the side of his valve. Bumblebee’s calipers spasmed as the spike escaped them. He flicked the tip of his tongue over the tip of Megatron’s spike, paused… then pushed down. He moved so fast, and his calipers were clenched so tight, that all his mouth and valve sensors were hit at once._
> 
> _His charge skyrocketed. And then it rose even higher when he slowly let go of the spike, then roughly pushed it into himself once more. Then again, and again, charge rising impossibly high. Urgent warnings appeared on his HUD. Megatron’s engine revved up, and his field flared like an explosion. This input, and another hard thrust, took the scout over the edge. He held Megatron’s spike as deep as he could. His valve, his spark, and his whole frame pulsed with waves of release._
> 
> _Megatron followed him and overloaded. It was loud and wonderful. They were so in tune by now that the echo of his lover’s pleasure hit Bumblebee almost as hard as his own overload._
> 
> _Bumblebee slumped to his side, curled up between Megatron’s legs. His head rested on Megatron’s thigh. His fingers slowly caressed seams of the warlord’s hip armor. Megatron gently cradled Bumblebee’s helm in his hands. The scout’s lips relaxed around the base of the spike, now smaller, comfortably stirring inside his valve. It was hard to think, but there was something he had to remember. Something he had to do before falling into recharge._
> 
> _Oh yes, that. No sleeping with ground bridges!_

Bumblebee tried to pet his interface array, as he usually would around this part of the file. His wrist was stopped by the shackle, and he opened his optics. Oh yes, that. All that.

Knock Out stood in front of him with a smile that looked dreamy, without any irony or taunting. He… must have really liked the story. For a moment, Bumblebee managed not to think about ‘all that’, and felt the strangest awe of truly sharing his worry-dream world with another mech.

Then Knock Out spoke. “Yes, as hot as I remember. All right then, scout. Open your interface panel.”

Bumblebee whimpered, thrashed, and cried out, ::No!:: He was as shocked as if Knock Out applied his energon prod.

“No? Suit yourself,” Knock Out said with a smirk and a shrug, and transformed a long, thick, pointy power drill out of his right arm. The drill buzzed to life; Knock Out brought it down between Bumblebee’s legs, and the scout screamed.

“Oops, how did this tool get here?” asked Knock Out, and the drill was gone before it touched anything. As usual, the doctor was happy to answer his own question. “Silly me, I must have sent the wrong signal!”

This time, Knock Out transformed out a medical cable, and plugged it into the local diagnostic port on Bumblebee’s thigh, ignoring the scout’s shudders and beeps. Bumblebee was so shaken he didn’t think to engage his active anti-hacking defenses until it was too late. Knock Out’s generic medical override proved stronger than the automatic system.

Bumblebee’s interface panel opened.

And then it closed, and locked.

Knock Out lifted his gaze from… down there, and looked Bumblebee in the optics. “What? I had to run one more diagnostic on the locks, with you awake.”

The doctor retracted his cable, muttered, “Love doing that,” and walked to a wall console.

Just like Smokescreen, again. He might make errors, Bumblebee wanted to say vindictively, but Knock Out just repeated the same dumb stunts over and over. The scout said nothing: he was the one who’d fallen for it. He wondered if Smokescreen screamed when Knock Out threatened him. His report didn’t say. Sometimes Bumblebee would spend a whole evening in his file, imagining his or Megatron’s reactions to what the other did, reactions to that, and so on. It was fun. Had been.

The real Megatron’s head appeared on the console screen. “Report your progress, doctor.”

“Your scout is one-hundred-percent operational, my liege. Frame and processor. We were just discussing his ground bridges.”

“Were you? Good one! Quite inspirational, Shockwave said.”

“Indeed, my…”

Megatron hung up. Knock Out muttered, “Rude,” and returned to Bumblebee, who felt his processor was very far from a-hundred-percent operational. ‘Shell-shocked’ was more like it. Shockwave and bridges. No, just… No.

“Lord Megatron will be here for you shortly, I assume,” Knock Out said. He paused, looking thoughtful, then asked, “Point of curiosity. Would Prime really let you Autobots interface with a prisoner?”

Even though Bumblebee had only woken half a joor earlier, he felt exhausted, too exhausted for stoic silence or pretense, so he answered plainly, ::He wouldn’t. And we wouldn’t, anyway. We don’t even have a brig. It’s just a story, Knock Out. Just a story.::

Rest and relaxation weren’t going to happen: the door opened, and there stood Megatron. Knock Out bowed, said, “My liege!” and walked away.

Bumblebee looked at the doctor’s shiny retreating back, then at the closed door. If he wasn’t to survive the next chapter of his story, there went his chance to learn what the Pit Knock Out meant by ‘continuity errors’.


	3. Two-Timing with the Time Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron finds Bumblebee as Knock Out left him, shackled to the medical examination rack. Eventually, he takes Bumblebee on a slow walk to the bridge, where the scout expects to be executed. Bumblebee’s file doesn’t cease to be the origin of new fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee/Megatron, Knock Out, Starscream, Soundwave, Shockwave, Vehicons  
> Tags: Psychological Torture, Mindfrag, Non-Con Bondage, Sticky, Group Interface, Time-Machine Sex.

Megatron pushed a button on the door keypad, locking the medbay after Knock Out. The warlord had wasted no words on the doctor; he said nothing to Bumblebee either, just looked him over head to foot, and stepped to the medical examination rack where he was shackled.

As much as the scout wanted to picture something not-horrible happening next - and had had thousands of joors of practice visualizing those strong, agile hands giving him tender caresses - his mind’s eye failed to comfort him. Instead of implausible, gentle imagery, he only saw highly-probable, harsh abstract words. Torture. Rape. Execution.

Bumblebee hoped to endure as an Autobot soldier should, but his imagination failed him here as well. How was that supposed to look? The harsh abstractions were only too eager to unfold into detailed and vivid scenes, yet Bumblebee had very few ideas on how... the victim (no avoiding this word) could act as an Autobot. The only part where he sort of understood what to do, if not how, was the execution, because he’d watched Senate broadcasts early in the war. The executed had always accepted their fate with quiet dignity; now that he’d had some experience of violence directed at himself, Bumblebee suspected they’d been heavily drugged. He hated screaming or begging, but military trainers had insisted that such reactions were irrelevant for duty. He wished he still had a clear task relevant for duty, like keeping a secret.

In contrast to Bumblebee’s doubts and worries, Megatron projected calm purpose in every economic, sure gesture. He got down on one knee: his usual stable landing position after a transformation, and also yesterday, when… Bumblebee shuddered, but Megatron merely issued the wireless commands making bands on the scout’s foot shackles retract.

Bumblebee quickly closed his legs. He couldn’t help it, even though it was a futile gesture and a display of his fear. Knock Out would probably tease him for it. Megatron ignored it, removing Bumblebee’s waist and head restraints next. The warlord tried to fit the longer one around his own left wrist, scowled when it came short, and carried the shackles to the corner console.  Bumblebee was free to crane his neck to watch.

Megatron typed something Bumblebee couldn’t see. A part of the wall opened, revealing a brightly lit supply cabinet the scout could see quite well; _there we go with the saws and things_ , he thought, alarm rising to panic. Bumblebee cycled his vents in a pattern that helped him sync the manual recalibration of his emotional matrix. He didn’t manage to reset it all the way to balanced calm, and had to settle for grim determination.

Megatron dumped the restraints into the pile on the lowest shelf, selected a new one, and shackled his left wrist with it. He went through several flexible, thick steel-wire cords next, chose one about as long as his arm, and attached the magnetic clasp at its end to his wrist shackle. He turned and waved his left arm around, looking between the cord and Bumblebee, then nodded to himself and pushed a button, closing the cabinet. What was the warlord planning, Bumblebee wondered, and would his glitchy processor stop imagining this, and that too, and, oh Primus, those lurid things (he crossed his legs), and the silence was just killing him, and...

::What are you doing?..:: Bumblebee beeped. He stopped himself just short of finishing, “...to me,” as Knock Out would have it. For once, the scout was really glad his sounds conveyed emotions so poorly.

“Making sure you are comfortable,” Megatron answered, deadpan.

Garbage in, garbage out, as Raf had always said about stupid software queries. What did Bumblebee expect, a report? Raf... Sorry, Raf…

The scout said goodbye in his mind, clenched his fists, and tensed all over, bracing for pain or worse as Megatron walked back to the rack. The warlord leaned down and attached the clasp at the other end of the cord to the shackle on the scout’s right wrist. He de-magnetized the shackles from the rack and stepped aside, the restraint between them lifting Bumblebee’s arm a little.

“Let’s go,” Megatron said levelly.

Bumblebee winced. There was no pain, but the words still sounded a threat. He briefly thought of resisting; there was no point. Yesterday he’d had quite enough of the ‘Cons dragging him around by a limb. He fell in with long, measured steps, three of his to one of the warlord’s, who walked slowly enough that Bumblebee didn’t have to run. The steel cord’s weight was a steady pull on his wrist, not too heavy, and it let him keep the distance that was… well, ‘comfortable’ distance would be somewhere across the galaxy, but this was reasonable for two mechs walking the corridors together.

The Vehicon guards at every intersection stepped aside and stood to attention. Bumblebee soon let his fists unclench. Walking soothed the lingering self-repair aches in his legs; Ratchet would always insist his patients exercised after injuries. By the Nemesis’ layouts he’d studied, they were moving toward the front of the ship. Megatron kept silent, and the scout followed suit; why prompt threats or mockery? Even though the few words Megatron had so far uttered were neither, as Bumblebee realized now that he wasn’t as panicky.

This was his least violent experience since his capture. Finally, a break that felt almost nice; except Bumblebee was still in the dreary Decepticon stronghold. So he imagined a better place. The corridor transformed into a quiet street in Iacon, just like he’d remembered it, before the war had destroyed everything. There were shops, cafes, and mechs strolling around. He’d never made up a scene with Megatron on a quiet walk, and it looked so peaceful; maybe he could imagine them holding hands, yes, walking and holding hands would be sweet. Let’s see, maybe Bumblebee could take Megatron’s hand and lead him to a little stand selling frozen energon treats by the rotating crystal sculpture, and, _and fragging Pits of fragging Kaon, why was he at it now, while fully awake in broad daylight?_

He needed rest. Badly. Emergency or medical stasis did nothing for processor defragmentation; self-repairs took a lot of energy, and this unexpected stretch of almost-peace had been too relaxing. At least he hadn’t grabbed Megatron’s hand too! Bumblebee stumbled at the mere thought and hurriedly righted himself, so Megatron would not think to grab his. The warlord slowed down for a couple of steps, then resumed the steady pace.

Bumblebee’s processor kept trying to break through the sleepy fog and warn that something didn’t add up. Something, something… This: why would Megatron bother? He’d done nothing of note in the medbay and didn’t seem to be doing anything important now. He could have ordered his flunkies fetch the captive to wherever they were going. To the bridge, actually: here was the entryway.

Was that why Megatron was escorting Bumblebee personally? Starscream would always brag that he’d executed Cliffjumper by his own hand. It must be the thing to do if you led the Decepticons. Had Starscream mentioned the bridge, or had it just seemed proper? The scout had built a picture, as a memorial to his lost friend: Cliffjumper had stood tall on that bridge like he owned the Nemesis, bravely looked his enemy in the optics, and made silly jokes till the very end.

Bumblebee focused on that picture, rather than the messy realism implied by his most recent experiences with Starscream. Fighting the fatigue, he lifted his head and pulled his shoulders back, as if marching in a military parade. He still didn’t feel like he was standing tall. Maybe because - he glanced sideways - he was about crotch-high to Megatron. At least, he thought morosely, there must be a silly joke in that somewhere.

A small part of the scout wanted to run, hide, fight Megatron, or beg him for life, but these instinctive near-death impulses felt muted. It wasn’t just because of his rational understanding that he would be unlikely to receive mercy and had no chance against Megatron, unarmed and restrained. It was also because of that sleepy almost-peaceful feeling. Fighting or begging seemed like too much work.

His scouting protocols lay dormant, despite all the things he could be observing on the bridge. Even Starscream’s gloating face in combination with the insistent memory ping, _Starscream-bridge-Cliffjumper-execution_ , couldn’t wake Bumblebee up. But when Megatron stopped by a console, the scout did manage to stand with his head high and his back straight.

He looked Starscream in the amused red optics when the commander said: “Legs all fixed, scout? Enjoying walking by yourself, are you? Or should I say, enjoying being walked on a leash?”

Cliffjumper would have had a retort; Bumblebee didn’t. He hoped his silent stand looked dignified, rather than stupefied.

“Starscream, you surprise me,” Megatron said distractedly. “Why would you remind us of your utter failure as an interrogator? And also” - this came with a threatening growl - “didn’t I tell you to be polite to our guest?”

Starscream scoffed, his grin turning sour when Shockwave stepped forward from a corner where, despite his bulk and the bright lighting, he’d contrived to lurk. “It would have been more logical to use the Cortical Psychic Patch,” he supplied.

The comment pushed Starscream into his rant mode. “May I remind you that interrogations are a military matter and, as such, my responsibility? So stay away, and keep your unreliable toys away too! Speaking of unreliable, how are the tiny ground bridges going? Or coming?” Starscream’s optics ridges wiggled obscenely, to match his grin.

Bumblebee froze, fully alert at last, and fully horrified. That wasn’t just talk? What if Shockwave made such tech work? What if Bumblebee was still around then? Would they hurry up with that execution?

His scouting protocols finally engaged, and he pulled back to a more balanced inner stance, glancing around. Shockwave stood in silence that must be driving Starscream mad. Soundwave was also present, and also silent, as ever. He stood facing Megatron, near a complex set of screens that he left as carefully blank as his own face. Half a dozen Vehicons were at smaller consoles, monitoring ship systems. Megatron’s screen had satellite and Seeker reports from around the Earth, negative on Autobot sightings. Whew.

Meanwhile, Starscream screeched, “Shockwave, may I remind you that your source is not science? It’s not even science fiction! Has your lonely stay on Cybertron scrambled your processors so badly that you want to weaponize a silly interface fantasy?”

::What?!:: Bumblebee buzzed out loud.

His processor raced through tactical scenarios, piling horrors upon horrors: a small ground bridge locked to the enemy’s relative coordinates, opening _inside_ , delivering bombs or tracking devices past the armor... What a cruel way to die, and to lose the war!

Bumblebee had thought it hurt when the Decepticons had used his worry-dream to torture and humiliate him (and he’d never considered that before, but now that he had, it was science fiction, too! Stupid Starscream!). It would be unbearable to die knowing they’d use his ideas to hurt not only him, but other Autobots.

Megatron turned around so abruptly that he yanked the cord, making Bumblebee stumble. The warlord’s fusion cannon hummed online. For a nanoklik the scout thought he’d be shot. The weapon pointed at Starscream’s head instead.

“Shut up!” Megatron bellowed, but when Starscream fell silent, the warlord deactivated his cannon and said, good-naturedly enough, “That information is classified. Has been classified.” Megatron grinned and glanced at Bumblebee, as if inviting him to share the joke. _‘Ha-ha, who cares what you know? You’ll die in a few kliks.’_

The scout still reeled from the realization. Maybe, he thought crazily, Shockwave could implement the tech from ‘ _Two-Timing with the Time Machine_ ’ and Bumblebee could steal it, go back in time, and smack his past self upside the head until he set that file to auto-purge every morning.

Yet even now he felt a pang of pain imagining his places, his moments, his world gone forever. _‘Time Machine’_ was new, so even the ‘Cons wouldn’t have a copy of that scenario, where Megatron and Bumblebee were celebrating the end of the war. They went back in time and borrowed past-Bumblebees from the happiest moments of his life, and threw a party in a posh penthouse restored by the Omega Lock. Together, they listened to music, drank high grade, watched the fireworks, and then retired to a grand round berth. Megatron lay on his side, and Bumblebee1 (himself, the main one) took the warlord’s (former, war being over) valve from the front, propped high enough on the smooth gray thigh. Bumblebee2 reached from the back, and though he looked a bit awkward hunching under Megatron’s bent knee, his spike felt awesome moving in counterpoint to Bumblebee1’s thrusts. They had a vibro-rod in the valve as well, set to low, adding spice to their charge. Bumblebees three, four, and five made a merry little intranet of their own, with Megatron’s fingers, their spikes, and their valves for nodes. Bumblebee6 was moaning while deeply kissing with Megatron; the sound faded in and out, because his timeline glitched, and he was slightly out of phase with the current reality.

There, Screamer - sci-fi enough for you? Oh. Starscream. The current reality!

In the current reality, Megatron grinned at Starscream and said, with perfunctory menace, “Keep failing me, Commander, and for the first test of Shockwave’s invention we will put a ground bridge in your valve and open its other end in the Vehicon barracks.”

“You will?” said Starscream, voice high, wings held up and trembling, hands clasped over his spark, and the electromagnetic field flaring far enough to reach Bumblebee, projecting… excitement? Then Starscream’s hands balled into fists, a little smile gave way to a threatening scowl, and his voice turned angry: “I mean… You what?!”

The bridge was silent for a few nanokliks, then Bumblebee lost it. He laughed. He was shaking with laughter, gasping air through all vents, and emitting random bleeps and buzzes in wild abandon. Bumblebee didn’t care that Starscream aimed arm-mounted rockets at him. So what if he died a few kliks sooner; that was _funny_.

Megatron glanced at him in surprise, then at Starscream with glee, and was the next to laugh, low and edging into infrasound vibrations. Vehicons at their consoles around the room joined in, tittering delicately. Something sounded alien - a group of humans, here? Bumblebee turned to the source: Soundwave broadcast a laughter track from his speakers. The animation of the sound’s frequency on his face panel was overlaid with a human smiling emoticon.

The only two mechs not laughing were Starscream, who was slowly lowering his rockets with a long-suffering expression; and Shockwave, who had no emotional matrix. He was back at his console, working on a complex diagram.

Probably devising new ways to kill the Autobots, Bumblebee thought, and sobered.

In a story, this would have been such a perfect moment for his execution: a stark contrast to the good laugh they’d just shared. No! He had to live, if only to disrupt Shockwave’s plans. He tensed, looking around for means of escape. While the Decepticons were distracted, he could reach the nearest Vehicon’s hand-mounted gun, shoot through the steel cord tying him to Megatron, then...

“Soundwave,” Megatron said, and suddenly everybody was quiet and paying attention. The warlord did have a very commanding voice. “Given the new circumstances, Bumblebee will be staying with us for a while. Assign him junior officer quarters.”

Soundwave inclined his head, his face plate now blank as usual. There was a small pause, then a fragment of ship schematics appeared, with a part of it blinking. Megatron, in turn, nodded.

Bumblebee’s unspoken last wish - not to be executed - seemed granted. Relief flooded him, then he felt so tired that he wavered on his feet. He wanted to curl up and recharge, no matter that he was on the Nemesis bridge, but he couldn’t. The ‘Cons would not let him, and moreover - _now what_?! New circumstances? Officer quarters? A Decepticon calling him by name, for the first time since his capture? For the first time ever, as far as he could remember.

“Let’s go,” said Megatron, turning around and tugging the cord just enough to stir Bumblebee’s hand. “Starscream, you have the bridge until I return.”

“Enjoy yourself, my lord,” Starscream said with a bow, tone plain, but fixing Bumblebee with an unmistakably dirty smirk. Bumblebee was too tired to be disturbed, and moreover, in his memory banks, the top item of Starscream’s file was simply too funny. He only chuckled, making the air commander stiffen with affront.

Megatron growled at his second-in-command and began to walk. Once more, Bumblebee matched the warlord’s slow, steady pace. His processor tried to analyze the new data, but by the first turn of the corridor he was back in that sleepy peaceful fog. They walked; they turned another corner, Vehicon guards stepping aside at attention; the lights shone overhead at even intervals; they passed doors without stopping; the corridor after the next turn looked just the same. Bumblebee could drop down and recharge right now if he was allowed, and he wouldn’t even need his file. He could also keep walking all day, or all vorn, it seemed, without a care in the world.

The last routines of his scouting protocol were about to disengage by the next turn, but then they didn’t, alerting him it was left turn number four.

Bumblebee walked on, now only pretending the peace. Strange meant alarming, and once that little alarm woke him up, his attention focused on the big alarming fact: Megatron walking with him to private quarters. There was no helping that, but at least he could check if he dreamed up the smaller problem. Before the next corner, Bumblebee stopped and compared the guards, who were now standing at attention, to the snapshot his memory routine had saved earlier. Yes, these were the same two Vehicons, a flier and a grounder, unless the ‘Cons had two sets of guards with perfectly matching patterns of scratches and dents.

Megatron had also stopped right when Bumblebee had. He was looking down at his captive with an unreadable expression. The warlord wasn’t dragging Bumblebee down the corridor, but he also wasn’t offering an explanation for the weirdness, not even a shrug. Unlike Optimus Prime, Megatron didn’t seem to be in the habit of communicating his reasons to the mechs around him. Only orders. He said, “ST-3v3, BR-14n, as you were,” and the guards returned to their post at the intersection.

Megatron resumed walking, expecting Bumblebee to follow, and the scout did, memorizing the way. Soon, Megatron stopped by a door. It looked like all the others.

Whatever ‘new circumstances’ Megatron mentioned, nothing but the remaining two out of the three harsh abstractions could await Bumblebee behind that door, and yet he tasted a sprinkle of professional pride over the abundant serving of high-grade dread: he was about to enter his first officer’s quarters. Junior officer, he corrected modestly.

The door opened.


	4. Free Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron helps Bumblebee settle into his new junior officer quarters and his new circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee/Megatron  
> Tags: Psychological Torture, Mindfrag, Non-Con Bondage, Plug and Play, Zero-G Sex
> 
> Picture credits: background by Ludek Pesek, robots by Hasbro, Fourier transform by Shuhao Cao.

At Megatron’s comm signal, the door to the quarters Soundwave had assigned to Bumblebee parted, and its two panels slid along grooves at the floor and ceiling, retracting into walls. The warlord stepped up to the door’s interior keypad. The steel-weave cord linking their wrist shackles was long enough to let Bumblebee linger outside. Megatron paused with his hand over the buttons, not turning to look at his captive. The scout cycled air through his vents, grit his denta, and took the smallest step across the threshold.

While Megatron was closing and locking the door, Bumblebee quickly glanced around. He recognized the type of room from Autobot intel about the Nemesis. Knock Out lived in quarters just like these. Everything was dark purplish-gray, industrial, Decepticon. There were two chairs by a table, and a console mounted on the wall. The berth was large enough to fit someone like Breakdown (or Megatron, Bumblebee thought with a shudder). A wall niche housed the nozzle of an energon dispenser and several empty cubes. Bumblebee didn’t want to scan now, lest it reminded Megatron to disable his scanners, but his passive sensors picked up two security cameras. A larger niche was a simple washrack: a solvent dispenser at the top, a small drain in the floor, and a few detailing supplies on a shelf.

Bumblebee wavered, and leaned on the door to steady himself. His recently repaired legs needed rest, his processor needed a defrag, and he needed a nice long vacation. Maybe he could neutralize all the ‘Cons, hijack the Nemesis, and take a week off on Monacus.

Why not start with Megatron? As if on cue, the warlord unlocked the cord from Bumblebee. Now the scout was the least restrained since his capture. Only the shackles remained on each wrist, their strong short-range EM field not letting him pull his integrated weapons or otherwise transform. Megatron sat down on the chair facing the door, then removed his own shackle and subspaced it, along with the cord. He looked at Bumblebee, as if waiting to see what it was the scout wanted to try.

Nothing. Bumblebee would not risk unnecessary injury. He’d gathered intel, and might get more. He and his story had caused Megatron to threaten Starscream, and Starscream to yell at Shockwave. Oh, and Megatron had shot a Seeker. Not bad for one day. Bumblebee didn’t know how to be a victim, so he would stick to being a scout.

He waited and watched quietly, cataloguing each minute detail of the room. He noted the positions of air vents, was surprised by the purple light showing the energon dispenser was on, and envied the ‘Cons this real Cybertronian-tech berth you could adjust for your frame type.

Primus, how Bumblebee had missed his favorite way of recharging: flat on his back, door wings hanging down into a recess. Though he needed defrag so badly he’d gladly fall into recharge on the cold hard floor. For a few days after Tyger Pax, until self-repairs had stopped and the nightmares had begun, Bumblebee would barely wake up. Ratchet had explained that self-repair nanites weren’t completely autonomous. Each active nano-drone uplinked to the processor and used up a tiny bit of its power, adding up to a serious drain.

“Does it mean any little scratch makes me slightly less smart?” Bumblebee had asked Ratchet.

Sarcastic as ever, the doctor had replied, “Yep! Imagine all the raw stupidity this slagging war produces. No wonder we can’t figure out how to stop it.”

Vorns later, they still could not, would not figure out peace. Bumblebee, with barely any processor power left, was still keeping himself awake by planning war: sabotage of the Nemesis, network hacks and blown-up fuel lines, provoking ‘Con in-fights and gathering intel. In a klik or so, the warlord seemed to have grown tired of simply observing the quiet scout, and said, “I do know what you really want, Bumblebee.”

The scout winced: Megatron had said something similar yesterday, right before… And what if he had deduced Bumblebee’s subversive plans? Maybe the scout shouldn’t have laughed on the bridge, or shown suspicion about their walk. Bumblebee slid down the door a little, trying to look more tired. That was easy.

Megatron’s tone was plain and businesslike when he said, “You want out of here. The first obligation of a prisoner is to escape.”

Bumblebee cycled a tiny vent of relief. Megatron, the lord and master of the obvious.

The warlord continued, “However, your escape, as Starscream puts it, is not even science fiction.”

Bumblebee sighed, not hiding it this time. Must the ‘Cons tease him so much about that file?

Megatron shrugged. “I know there are other things you want as well. I will give you a choice.”

The warlord paused, watching Bumblebee. Here come the sick games. It was like the loading screen of a branching puzzle-story Raf had played: ‘Be the hero and choose your own adventure!’

Cooperate, or choose your own torture. Tyger Pax edition: if you don’t talk, audios or vocalizer? Given Megatron’s interest in Bumblebee’s file, the Nemesis game expansion promised to involve other body parts. Bumblebee didn’t need the condescending jerk of a ‘Con doctor to see the dangers of anything beyond ‘just a finger, note the singular’. There would be pain, damage, and near-terminal disgust. But it seemed Megatron wasn’t planning to offline him, and was about to make demands. Bumblebee would focus on the hunt for clues to the ‘new circumstances’ the warlord had mentioned.

The scout might have to bargain for recharge somehow. He longed to lie down, to relieve growing aches. Standing felt so much worse than walking. He wouldn’t just lie down in front of Megatron, of course, but Bumblebee’s knee assemblies were about to buckle.

Oh, what the Pit. Bumblebee pushed himself away from the door - stepping into the room and toward his enemy. Overriding his hips’ protests, he hopped onto the free chair, his comfortable pose mirroring Megatron’s: frame slouching, hands resting on the table, legs eased apart. Or it would have been comfortable, if only… if only everything had been different. As it was, Bumblebee’s chair had its back to the door that lead into a ship full of enemies; his wrists itched from the shackles; his feet couldn’t reach the floor; and his processor kept updating the list of things that would never fit between his parted legs.

Maybe Megatron wouldn’t be able to tell, but Bumblebee tried to modulate his beeps to match the warlord’s businesslike tone when he said, ::What kind of choice?::

Megatron smiled, and Bumblebee reset the buffer on his tactile responses to override a shiver. The warlord said, “I have been wounded before, and I have been a captive before. You desire to recharge, and to know what’s going on.”

Bumblebee didn’t respond to this set of banalities. Megatron stood up, and the scout poised himself to evade and resist any violent demo of his choices. There was nowhere to run, no hope of winning a fight… no way he would cooperate. But the warlord walked to the energon dispenser, drew and brought back two glowing light-blue cubes of mid-grade, sat down, and pushed one cube across the table.

Self-repair did burn a lot of fuel. His scout training urged Bumblebee to fill up whenever he had a chance during a field operation. Was the fuel spiked? Unlikely. If Megatron wished to get anything into his captive, he didn’t have to be sneaky about it. The scout had no energy to fight every maybe-danger. Bumblebee sipped a little, then more. It didn’t taste like home, but his chemical sensors reported energon as safe, cleanly filtered, and enriched with balanced additives.

The warlord took a long draught, fully absorbed by the task, his optics on his cube, his hands cradling it as a precious thing. How often had Megatron starved as a gladiator, as a guerrilla fighter, and even as a warlord? Megatron put the cube down, then said, “Your choices are: recharge or information. You can choose to rest right now. Or you can choose to ask me questions first.”

The warlord paused, but Bumblebee didn’t react. He grew even sleepier after energon, so it was easy to keep still and quiet while waiting. Surely Megatron had more to say: the parts where his captive would be hurt.

Megatron nodded. “If you choose to recharge, I will leave. The Vehicons on duty will watch over your rest.” He waved at the ceiling and its cameras. “If you choose information, I will stay and answer your questions, for as long as you want.” Megatron paused, then added. “And you will have to sit on my lap.”

Bumblebee thought he was prepared for sick slag, but he spluttered energon at this turn of phrase. He licked it off his lips, then tried to rub his arms clean, the mundane his shield against the weird. Megatron pulled out a soft, gray human-made detailing cloth from subspace and handed it over. Automatically, Bumblebee took it and used it, but suppressed his also-automatic thanks. He didn’t owe any gratitude, apologies, or other courtesies to those who kept him captive and threatened him with… What now?

::What do you want, Megatron?:: he asked, exasperated. ::Is ‘sitting on your lap’ what the Decepticons call forced interface these days? Are you trying to win the stupidest torture contest? How will I know anything you answer is true? How can I believe you’ll let me sit there and, and nothing else?::

Megatron smiled, pushed his chair back from the table, gestured at his knees, and then clasped his hands behind his helm, comfortably leaning on the chair’s back. Right. He wasn’t going to answer any questions without his price.

Even if Megatron had answered, Bumblebee wouldn’t have believed a word of it. Why would Megatron just sit and talk? The choice must be as sick as Megatron’s actions yesterday, as everything else Megatron did. If Bumblebee chose to rest, he’d be walking away from his duty to gather intel, and would feel the coward. He was almost sure Megatron wouldn’t kill him, and so lacked the excuse of trying to survive. The other choice was to be fed lies and propaganda along with any information, while, at the very least, being molested - and every nanoklik, knowing he could stop it. His tank churned when he imagined how those two clowns, Starscream and Knock Out, would mock him for hopping on Megatron’s lap. He was pretty sure the distinction between cooperation and consent was too fine for the ‘Cons. Maybe he could mock them right back and tell them not to be so jealous.

Why should he care what the Decepticons thought, anyway? Focus! Focus on what his Prime would want him to do! Ratchet, Arcee… The mechs who cared.

If he asked, every Autobot would tell Bumblebee to choose the safer option. They would tell him to stay as far away from Megatron as possible. Yes, but what would they _do_ if they were, Primus forbid, in Bumblebee’s place? The scout accidentally imagined Optimus Prime on Megatron’s lap. He aborted the whole line of thought so fast that his head ached and his file system pinged a glitch warning.

He had to try it, didn’t he? For duty: to gather intel for the Autobots. For safety: so Megatron wouldn’t think him too tired, too weak, or too afraid. And because - he defiantly smiled at the ceiling cameras, even though his battle mask hid it from the imagined watchers - he wouldn’t let the likes of Starscream influence him.

Bumblebee turned to Megatron, who was still smiling as well, in that lopsided way of his, a taunt and a threat belying his relaxed pose. The scout’s smile faded, but he kept his voice steady when he beeped, ::I choose information.:: Seeing Megatron’s grin grow, he added, ::You knew I would, didn’t you?::

“Come here and ask me again,” Megatron said, bouncing his knee up and down a little.

Slagging ‘Con torturer! Ugh, how could Bumblebee even do it? His armor crawled at the mere thought of touching Megatron. The scout stood up, the small jump down from the chair making his legs hurt, and stepped around the table. His instincts screamed for him to walk - to run - the opposite way. He focused on his disgust so that his EM field wouldn’t leak fear.

He couldn’t move another step. His processor tried to help in its peculiar glitchy way: it pulled up a scenario from his worry-dream file where he was on Megatron’s lap. Could the file’s data overwrite his disgust? The scene was in an oil pool, the scout half-floating, half-reclining, Megatron in the same relaxed pose as he held now. Bumblebee’s emotional matrix did load the feelings from the file. But it was adding them to the reality, not overwriting. The unholy mix of _aroused-revolted-warm-afraid-lazy-resolved_ made the scout’s processor spin. He couldn’t hack that, not until a good thorough defrag. Bumblebee dismissed the file. Fighting a dizzy spell, he cycled his vents and clenched his fists.

His right hand, he realized, was clenching the cloth. Ha, maybe? Warily, he came up to Megatron, who kept sitting as he was, obviously enjoying the show. In one quick move, Bumblebee spread the cloth over Megatron’s left knee, turned around, and pulled himself up onto the safer spot, like a fastidious human sunbather on an unsanitary rock.

Bumblebee sat next to the two wickedly sharp protrusions that capped Megatron’s knee assembly, as far away from Megatron’s torso as possible. He sat facing out, turned to keep the warlord in full view. Megatron could move very fast; Bumblebee was faster. He hoped he still was, even injured. He was ready to roll if he was hit for his jibe, or jump and dodge if the warlord tried to grab him.

Megatron kept his hands behind his head. He gave an amused chuckle, Bumblebee feeling the low sound through the plating, and said, “Clever, scout. Well?”

What to ask? Where to start? First things first: Bumblebee changed the settings of his memory banks to the highest fidelity, and dialed up his sensors. A thought made him cringe: if he shared the recording, he would have to explain his vantage on Megatron’s knee to the other Autobots. Then he reminded himself that if - when - he got out of here, he shouldn’t mind such little things anymore. His friends would understand.

A simple question first. ::How many security cameras are in this room?:: The scout could verify the answer later, and use the data to analyze other answers for sound, visual, and EM clues that went with truth and lies.

“There are six cameras,” Megatron said, but didn’t stop at that. “They are under live observation by two separate teams. You might be capable of hacking the cameras and the locks. I would advise against it.”

Bumblebee thought he might try. Guards’ responses would give him clues about his status. He asked another simple question, for a more reliable baseline to detect lies. ::What energon can I get from the dispenser, and how much?::

“All the low- and mid-grade you can eat. We have plenty, but do not play with your food, scout. There are starving mechs out there.”

Yes, like all the Autobots on strict rations. Despite Megatron’s light tone, that was another warning against sabotage. Fuel was flammable, even if low- and mid-grade wouldn’t explode.

At least the warlord wasn’t playing any silly games with too-literal, too-narrow, or too-obfuscated answers. So far.

::What questions can I ask? Why are you answering them?::

“I will not divulge the Nemesis’ codes or Decepticon battle plans. Other than such tactical information, ask anything. I want you to know, and to understand.”

One thing to understand was - ::Why all this?:: Bumblebee waved his hand around the room, then quickly put it back where it had been on the cloth, ready for a controlled jump. ::Why repairs, quarters, food?::

“All this,” - Megatron also waved his right hand around; Bumblebee tensed, but the hand went to rest on Megatron’s right thigh, - “is a demonstration, and an experiment. The war is almost over. We need to think about the life beyond.”

 _Welcome to Cybertron, under the new management_ , thought Bumblebee. _Your energon is free, and your hosts are happy to tear off your legs for scraplet food._ Out loud, he said, ::Am I your experimental subject?::

“That is correct. You are very suitable for the task. This very morning, I called the Prime about that.”

Bumblebee startled. Megatron had talked to the Autobots again - about him?! But the scout had to finish his other line of questions first, because his processor wasn’t up to multitasking. It seemed unlikely Megatron would hurt him right away. Without a highest-priority threat, keeping awake was harder. His systems were pinging him for shut-down. Not yet!

::You are the experimenter, right? Very… hands-on.:: Bumblebee couldn’t believe he was joking about what Megatron had done, so soon after. He blamed his muddled processor.

“That is correct, as well. Beginnings are always so very delicate.” Bumblebee scoffed at ‘delicate’, and Megatron chuckled. “I need to observe and to adjust.”

::What do you want to happen, if your experiment works?.::

“I want to figure out what to do with the Autobots after the war.”

::Why?::

“Why not execute you? There aren’t enough of us left! Very fine Decepticon engineers have been working on clones for a long time. We have Vehicons, Seekers, and Shockwave’s new project. The results have been not quite satisfactory. We might never find the Allspark. So, Bumblebee” - the warlord’s gaze held the scout’s optics - “my goal is to save the lives of Cybertronians.”

::Tell that to the Seeker you just shot,:: Bumblebee couldn’t help but retort, as he looked away. Megatron, trying to save lives? Beyond ridiculous!

“A demonstration was necessary for my second in command, and for others who might dare break my orders. That clone’s sacrifice should keep you safe. I have ordered Starscream not to cause permanent damage, but he is always so very tempted by chains and spilled energon.” Megatron shook his head. “I had to keep warning him about Wheeljack, too.”

The Wrecker had kept true to his team’s spirit, saying his turbofox had eaten his report. But Wreckers did tell stories, and a good story called for details. Like energon splatter and falling into stasis - even though Wheeljack’s story had been centered on many creative ways he’d made fun of Starscream while chained up in his brig.

Bumblebee didn’t feel safe, just a tiny bit relieved, then very guilty someone had to die for it. Wait, that was an enemy! Anyway, what exactly were the warlord’s plans for his… experiment? If Bumblebee asked, he’d get more empty words about saving Cybertron. Maybe he could ask for details instead? Starting with the obvious.

::Why am I sitting here, Megatron?:: The scout dangled his feet. He couldn’t help but share some unflattering guesses. ::Are you so desperate for touch that you have to force a prisoner? Or do you believe you can train mechs like mechanimals? Do you experiment to see if the Autobots make good pets? I can give you a spoiler: we don’t.::

“You’ve begun to master the fine art of taunting,” said Megatron; the scout couldn’t tell if his approval was mocking or serious. “It’s not your style yet, Bumblebee, but you show fine promise. The Decepticons taunt, and that brings me to why I offered you the _choice_ ” - Megatron lowered his left hand, making Bumblebee ready to bolt. The hand only patted warlord’s hip and was left hanging by his side - “to sit here. Think of it as a cultural exchange. The Autobots don’t touch one another very much. Here, things are different, maybe even closer to your dreams.”

Not that scrap again, about Megatron making Bumblebee’s dreams come true! It was hard enough to separate the reality and the imagery leaking from the worry-dream file; Megatron wasn’t helping at all. Why would he? Bumblebee reminded his disoriented self that Megatron was the enemy, doing a processor-washing experiment on an unwilling captive.

::You know I don’t want to touch you, right?:: The scout asked, for all the difference it would make.

“Yes, I do,” Megatron said seriously and then continued in the same tone, “And while contemplating my offer, you didn’t pull up any of the fourteen different scenarios from your file where you sit on my lap, right?”

Bumblebee gasped, his memory triggered beyond control, one image after another coming up faster than he could dismiss them.

“No, no, don’t argue! I was wrong,” said Megatron. Yes, yes, he was wrong, in so many ways; but the warlord added, “It’s not fourteen, it’s sixteen, if you count the two scenes in outer space. It is curious why you choose settings that scare you so much. Technically, you do not sit in weightlessness, but the poses…”

He bounced his knees up and down, and the room swayed. The scout stifled a retch, reminded of the Seekers dropping him through the air yesterday. He wondered if Starscream’s inspiration for torture had come from the same file, and glared at Megatron.

“That was a taunt, scout,” said the warlord, his finger tapping the Decepticon badge on his chest. “A mild one, because I am being friendly” - Bumblebee glared some more. “I assure you, I am fully aware that you do not behave as your character does in your file. My most excellent spies assure me no Autobot behaves that way. I am trying to tell you, and to show you, that the Decepticons might. To borrow your phrase, none of us is ‘desperate for touch’. And while we are on the subject of your file: kudos! For an amateur, you have developed my character very well.”

No way he had! Megatron was delusional, Bumblebee glitchy, and the universe crazy enough to put one on the other’s lap. How many times had Megatron… studied that file, tagged scenes for poses and who knew what else, spent time and processing cycles on it? Bumblebee almost asked, but couldn’t. And as valuable as Megatron considered such data about his own enemies, the scout wouldn’t talk about Decepticons’ interfacing habits. No, there was something else Bumblebee still had to ask. He closed his optics to concentrate, and dug through his working memory queue, so messed up it was more of a memory heap, as data structures went.

He dismissed error messages and requests for system shut-downs. Under them, on auto-play as ever, there waited a scenario from his file: Bumblebee and Megatron stranded in a one-mech escape pod orbiting Saturn. They… Yes, it did look as if Bumblebee was snuggling on Megatron’s lap, cables linking their data ports.

Megatron’s frame could gather more of a charge to send through the interface, while Bumblebee could change and pulse his EM field better, thanks to his infiltration addons. Their interface started deliciously slow: rough, jagged packets of charge from Megatron, positive then negative, high and low, flame and ice - taken and modulated into sleek sinuous waves by Bumblebee.

The waves built into a storm, coming closer together, the higher frequency making the microscopic wires and circuits in Bumblebee’s frame sing their resonance. More charge, taller waves, still coming fast; and then, the pattern fell into glorious electric chaos.

Cable-only interface was the thing to do in zero gravity. Who’d want little spheres of bodily fluids floating everywhere?

The views of Saturn from the pod’s windows were edited pictures by human artists, and the soundtrack was old Cybertronian music that Megatron-in-the-story shared through the cables. For the richer media, Bumblebee had mixed in the EM track, recording a snippet of data every time he’d overloaded to this part of the file. As a consequence, the story grew somewhat repetitious, while he and Megatron waited many joors for their rescue.

Their frames kept touching, and data kept flowing. Through Megatron’s optics, Bumblebee saw Saturn’s rings not just as eerily lit chunks of ice, but as a thrilling flight path: a sharp turn here, a chance to accelerate there. From the scout’s side, Megatron sensed Bumblebee’s fear of their endless free fall over the gas giant. ‘I will never let you fall, I promise!’ the warlord said. His steady strong hand under Bumblebee’s door wings was such a comfort…

The scout opened his optics, waking up with a start. He would have had slid backwards if not for Megatron’s hand. He recoiled from the touch and almost had to jump down, but regained his balance.

Megatron put his hand back down on his other knee, and asked, “Is it time to stop?”

::Yes!:: Bumblebee buzzed urgently, finally retrieving the key question from his memory queue. ::I mean, no! Can’t stop yet. What did you and Optimus Prime talk about?::

“Mostly tactical negotiations that are classified. The usual talk the Prime and I have every few days.”

Bumblebee must have shown his surprise, because Megatron said, “It takes a lot of coordination between sides to organize a war. But I digress; surely you are asking about yourself.”

He was, and he sorely needed to know, yet his frame was shutting down, error messages now threatening stasis if he couldn’t initiate recharge. No, no, not yet! Megatron’s voice sounded far away. “Yesterday, the Prime called to tell me you don’t know where the Autobots are. I was on my way to rescue you from Starscream. I told him that you and I haven’t talked about the Autobot base” - Megatron’s face was floating out of focus, many copies looming over Bumblebee with many smug grins. “I said I was busy with you, and would call back. The Prime asked what I was doing to you. I said, ‘With, not to’ and sent him a certain file, in lieu of explanations. Can you guess what file, scout?”

Bumblebee clutched the edges of his cloth so tight his fingers tore through, because the room was violently shaking from side to side. In a few nanokliks, he figured out why, and stopped shaking his head in the silent scream of ‘No!’

A tiny hope: was Megatron lying to him, or spinning the truth as he had for Optimus? No, why bother? Where would Bumblebee’s file end up next, maybe a collection or ten on the Earth network that the car-loving humans called ‘the information superhighway’, and it was bad enough Bumblebee’s enemies knew his stories, but the enemies were already thinking bad things about him, and he didn’t care about opinions of mechs like Megatron, no he didn’t, not at all, but Bumblebee’s friends, his fellow soldiers, his family, they couldn’t learn his stupid glitchy secret, he’d meant to tell them one day, but that day was not today, not when he couldn’t explain anything, when he really needed their help, needed them so badly...

He forced himself to ask the next question, his beeps soft and unsteady, ::What did you and Optimus talk about this morning?::

“I told the Prime you will be staying with us for a while, as the Autobot representative. He demanded assurances we are not keeping you by force. It was most endearing. ‘I appreciate Bumblebee’s feelings, and he is free to act as he sees fit. Nevertheless, can I talk to him directly?’ ” Megatron didn’t imitate the baritone, but he perfectly captured Optimus Prime’s intonations. “I told him you are still not awake, after a busy night. You should have seen his face!”

Bumblebee had probably been frozen for too long, because he felt his seat tilt and lower under him as Megatron let him down. The scout stood up automatically and grabbed the table, swaying from the fatigue. His peripheral systems were turning off to conserve processing power; he overrode his optic sensors to keep streaming visual data.

“Rest now,” Megatron ordered, and walked out without any parting courtesies or taunts.

When the door locked behind the warlord, Bumblebee staggered to the berth. Adjustable; who cared? He tumbled onto it, prone, and buried his face in his hands. His spark clenched painfully, his capacitors sparkled and vents faltered, the engine hitched, the fuel pump lost its rhythm, and then he was shaking all over and sobbing uncontrollably. Last time, that kind of electromechanical misfortune had happened right after Bumblebee and Raf had escaped the Decepticon assault on the Autobot base in Jasper, Nevada.

They had found their first shelter in an abandoned barn. Raf had asked, “Bee, are you crying?” He had thrown his arms around the scout’s head and hugged him until Bumblebee’s systems had recalibrated.

Bumblebee imagined Raf’s tiny warm palms stroking his helm, and, to use a human term, cried himself to sleep.

Still, he had to… Pull up the file - Megatron’s hand on his neck - a tiny ping of thrill and longing - recharge protocols engaged.


	5. Good Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee is trying to recharge, defragment, and dream of peace on Cybertron during his first non-stasis night on the Nemesis. The random event generator of the universe, or maybe Decepticon officers, conspire against it. The scout is determined to get some rest, even if it’s only a quarter-joor at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee/Megatron, Knock Out, Steve the Vehicon, Laserbeak, Vehicons, Steve the Scraplet  
> Tags: Psychological Torture, Sticky, Tactile Sexual Interface, Tickling, Sleep Deprivation

Something tickled Bumblebee’s ankle, and it wasn’t a scanner beam this time. Given the level of environmental threat he tagged to his recharge protocol, he would wake up screaming if he were a civilian. But his civilian life had only lasted a few kliks after the moment he'd come online. He had received his integrated weapons and the files with basic Autobot military practices before his first recharge. Those files included special wake-up protocols for field operations.

When Bumblebee’s sensors picked up the light touch, they sent the high-priority ‘abort’ signal to his defragmentation routines, which at the time were trying to tag memories of Starscream’s behavior on the bridge: either _#SelfAbsorbedStupidity_ or _#SuspiciouslyBadActing_. Bumblebee didn’t pull away from the touch, and kept his optics dimmed while streaming a low-resolution visual feed. He slowly turned to his side from his prone position so he could see, and stopped, as if failing to wake up. It was hard to mask the surge of alarm and repulsion when Bumblebee realized an enemy was in his room, touching him in his recharge, but his wake-up protocol held his EM field contained and his frame immobile. Knock Out gave a dramatic sigh of irritation, leaned over, and stretched his hand to…

Bumblebee didn’t wait to find out. His left hand shot up, grabbing the doctor’s outstretched arm, and the scout levered himself off the berth. He used his momentum to punch Knock Out in the face. The doctor ducked, but even a glancing blow to his armored helm disoriented him for a nanoklik. Bumblebee stepped around Knock Out, twisted the arm he held so that any movement threatened to dislocate the elbow, and put his other arm around Knock Out’s neck.

Knock Out relaxed in his hold, and drawled, “Is this what I get for waking you up gently, scout? If you wanted a hug so desperately, you could have asked!”

Bumblebee didn’t answer. There was a slow clap from the door. The scout turned, dragging Knock Out to turn with him, and saw Megatron’s amused grin. “Well done, Bumblebee. Now, release my doctor and let him scan you.”

The scout kept his hold as it was, his still-muddled processor sluggishly sorting through possible uses for his hostage. So far, all scenarios ended with Knock Out mildly inconvenienced, Bumblebee seriously hurt, and then shackled to a medical rack, to be repaired by the freshly irritated Knock Out (possibly with a dislocated elbow). Joy. Both ‘Cons looked as if they shared Bumblebee’s estimation of his threat level, somewhere between ‘nonexistent’ and ‘pathetic’.

“As much as I care for the physical needs of my patients...” - Knock Out gyrated his hips backwards and bonked his aft on Bumblebee’s hip assembly. The scout recoiled, but managed not to drop his hold. He glanced at Megatron; the warlord’s grin never wavered. That Seeker on the flight deck had been shot for disobeying, not for lewd behavior toward Megatron’s ‘personal experiment’. Bumblebee marked as _#PossiblyTrue_ Megatron’s earlier claims about the Decepticons’ bodily habits, and gulped at the implications, fear mixed with a hint of disappointment he couldn’t identify.

Knock Out continued, “My shift ended a joor ago. The latest issue of ‘ _Muscle Car’_ awaits, with a very shiny hot rod on the cover. Can we play later, scout? Would you please let me do as my liege ordered and scan you?”

That was… polite. Bumblebee waited a few nanokliks more just to show he could, then let the doctor go. He didn’t bother to roll away or assume a battle stance. Knock Out turned around, transformed a scanner out of his arm, and started the slow scan from Bumblebee’s feet.

The sense of light touch on the inside of the armor made Bumblebee fidget a little, but he stayed put otherwise. Should he tell Megatron that uninterrupted recharge does more for one’s health than a scan? No use. Unlike the warlord, Bumblebee wasn’t fond of stating the obvious out loud. He checked his chrono: he’d been in recharge for less than a joor, while his HUD informed him he needed at least ten more.

The scan lingered on knees and hips, then on wrists and shoulders, then on the left door wing Starscream had favored, and then was done. “My liege, at this pace, self-repairs will be finished in about half a cycle. The scout will be fit for your trip,” Knock Out reported.

What? Megatron didn’t look available for questions. He nodded, stepped out into the corridor, and gestured ‘follow me’ without looking into the room. Bumblebee glanced at the berth, sighed, and made a slow step toward the door. But Knock Out brusquely walked out, saying “Sweet recharge!” with a smirk, and the door slid closed behind him. The locks engaged with a very quiet hum of well-tuned machinery.

This time, Bumblebee adjusted the berth. He dropped a few middle sections down to make a recess for his door wings, and adjusted the header portion at an angle to keep his optics on the door. While he was at it, he made the micro-mesh surface softer; it had been set for heavier frames and didn’t sink any under his weight. He lay down on his back, and moaned very quietly: this felt so good! The door wing struts hung down, and nothing pinched the sensitive surfaces. His backstrut straightened through and through, tensions melting away from his back and shoulders. His favorite pose for recharge pinged lovely memories from quiet R&R times during ceasefires on Cybertron, but one look at the door brought him back to Earth. Where Megatron had made fun of Starscream’s ‘chains and spilled energon’, apparently being in favor of subtler tortures. _‘Have a nice berth to go with your recharge deprivation.’_

Bumblebee increased the sensitivity of his audio sensors, hoping the door itself would wake him next time someone entered. Meanwhile, he had to grab what recharge he could. He firmly told himself not to think about the Autobots considering him a defector ( _they couldn’t! they wouldn’t!_ ), or the reasons why he’d need his full health for Megatron’s trip. Bumblebee was still sick in the spark and very tired, but catching Knock Out cheered him up a tiny bit, for all that it had been futile.

The fight had also left Bumblebee keyed up, so he searched through his worry-dream file for something peaceful, quiet, relaxing… Something Megatron or others hadn’t yet linked with real worry-nightmares. As the scout applied # _ConUse_ tag to his stories - alas, everything about hand-to-valve, ground bridges, heights, or Megatron’s lap - he thought he would run out soon, and then what? The last thing he wanted to do as Megatron’s captive was create new scenarios.

The relatively untouched scene he found at last was in a giant domed warehouse on Cybertron. It started with Bumblebee and Megatron’s casual hug, with the obligatory quick caress of Bumblebee’s neck, and then both set to work.

A crowd of mechs went in and out through giant doors, worked on an inventory on a dozen consoles linked to a wall-mounted screen, hauled more goods inside, and sorted scrap from treasure. A table in the corner held energon cubes and solid-energon snacks; the floor was littered with gears, wires, and circuits from old tools, but nothing like body parts or shrapnel; Autobots, Decepticons, and Neutrals were working together without any strife - a wistful post-war story.

Bumblebee was using an antigrav platform to haul boxes that fliers brought from afar and left outside the warehouse. Megatron just lifted and carried large or awkwardly shaped items. Bumblebee brought his platform back outside, where he saw Megatron trying the balance of…

“What is that? So many attachments and gears and things… I know some parts - this is a perforated disk assembly, and this is a comb grill, and that” - Bumblebee stood on tiptoes to reach the top of the contraption, formerly shiny, now covered in soot of war - “is a heat emitter, but why are there a hundred little suction cups atta…”

Bumblebee pulled his hand back with a little yelp that turned into a relieved giggle: when he touched, the part started to vibrate with a loud rattle. The engine still worked, but barely.

 _I sound so carefree and happy there,_ thought real-Bumblebee with a sigh, casting a glance at the door with its promise of real-Megatron, then at the table still holding two unfinished energon cubes and the cloth he’d sat on earlier. He forced his optics to turn off. Recharge!

In the scene, Megatron said, “This is a detailing and massage chair. It is probably from a rich mech’s estate.”

He was scowling, forever-rebel, and Bumblebee tried to change the topic. “Want me to help with my antigrav?”

“No need. Ha, why don’t you sit in this chair, little scout” - real-Bumblebee fidgeted on his berth; later, he’d need to do a global replace of that phrase in his file - “and I can show you how it is done!”

With the strength of a miner-turned-gladiator, and the fluid grace that was his signature in hand-to-hand combat, Megatron carried the chair, easily balancing all its protrusions, attachments, implements, and the laughing Bumblebee on top. He gently put it down in the far corner of the warehouse, behind boxes stacked high, and whispered, “The chair is too noisy, but if you can keep quiet, I can give you a very nice massage.”

Bumblebee sat back on the reclined surface, careful not to touch any attachments. In less than a klik he had melted under the soft sure touches of Megatron’s hands, soon joined by his lips. He usually moaned and talked and laughed when touched by these hands; the effort to be silent kept his attention sharply focused - and his charge sharply rising. Megatron grinned, traced light kisses around the edges of headlights on Bumblebee’s chest, and then along the side-panel seam and down to the interface panel.

Bumblebee hastily turned a moan into a soundless sigh. Megatron knocked on the panel with one fingertip; as soon as it opened, the ‘massage’ focused on Bumblebee’s spike, pressurized in nanokliks under Megatron’s skilled lips and glossa. It was almost too much to bear, and Bumblebee barely caught another moan. Megatron never stopped caressing his spike, while his hands stroked down the scout’s shoulders, front, and legs, slow and steady touches helping Bumblebee not to lose their game.

The scout heard other mechs in the warehouse, talking, laughing, and moving heavy things, but the rising wave of his charge made these sounds distant, the input lower priority than the delicious hum of Megatron’s vents. The powerful jet engine revved up, almost bringing Bumblebee over the edge. He uttered no sound, ready for his release, sparkling a little from his armor seams, and celebrating the game almost-won.

Megatron pulled away, his lopsided smile and the gleam in his optics promising mischief. Bumblebee opened his mouth to protest; Megatron put a silencing finger to the scout’s lips, and looked around.

Bumblebee’s charge dissipated only a little by the time the warlord found something on the floor and came back. He showed his find - a soft thin wire - then took Bumblebee’s spike in his mouth again. As Megatron swirled his glossa around the spike and sucked, he lightly trailed the wire inside the seam between Bumblebee’s stomach and side armor plates.

The scout jolted and almost cried out, pleasure suddenly skyrocketing. With his charge so close to the overload levels, the light touch confused his sensory net in the most amazing, unexpected, and unbearable ways. He put his knuckle in his mouth and bit on it, cheating in the game. What else could he do, if Megatron was sliding his lips up and down Bumblebee’s spike at a quick pace, while still tracing seams around his stomach and hips with that Unicron-spawned, Primus-blessed little wire?! The plasma arc of pleasure linked the sensor node at the tip of the spike to each seam the wire was touching. Megatron’s hack made the arc’s electric tingle grow exponentially through the expanding network of the places touched and awakened before.

And then Megatron smoothly transferred the spike into his hand, and lowered his mouth to Bumblebee’s valve. Hot glossa reached in, and the whole-body electric storm consuming Bumblebee flared to a new magnitude, fueled by sensors in his valve, as yet untouched. It was the crowning moment of Bumblebee’s career as a scout when he didn’t scream falling into stasis from that overload.

***

This time, Bumblebee’s wake-up call was far from gentle. It was _loud_. He cried out, audios in pain, and dialed their sensitivity down as he scrambled to his feet and ran to the source of the noise. It was the Autobot distress signal, coming from the console. Were his friends on the Nemesis, trying to rescue him and falling into trouble? Could he trace the call, or maybe hack the door and help them - or at least, create a diversion?

Bumblebee broadcast “Who is here? Do you need help?” on the Autobot general comm channel. The Nemesis was insulated against radio waves, but if Autobots were inside, the comm could reach them. Who was here? The Wreckers storming the front gates, or Smokescreen sneaking in with his phase shifter?

There was no answer to his message, and no change in the distress signal. Bumblebee started to type the first commands of a tracer hack on the console, when a stifled laugh joined the sound of the call, followed with, “Shut up!” in a high, scratchy voice he didn’t know.

“I can’t! His face!” another voice Bumblebee didn’t recognize said, laughing. There were sounds of scuffle, and then the distress signal stopped.

“Commander Starscream will love it” - the scratchy voice laughed too.

“If you live long enough to show him the recording, Steve” - a third voice interjected, cheerful and mocking, with no apparent care for the other possibility.

Bumblebee slowly lowered his hands from the console’s inputs. His engine was misfiring and his fuel pump was pulsing irregularly, systems struggling with their abrupt jump from recharge to battle-ready. This time, his chrono said, he was in recharge for less than a quarter of a joor. Slaggers.

“Wait, Brian, have you kept the line open? You stupid glitch, you...”

The scratchy-voiced Steve was interrupted by a low growl Bumblebee knew too well. “Guards. What is going on?”

“My lord!” - four voices said in almost-perfect unison.

“ST-3v3, report,” Megatron said, the concentrated threat in the short phrase making Bumblebee shiver.

“It’s been nice knowing you, Steve,” the cheerful third mech commented quietly.

Bumblebee winced when Megatron bellowed, “Turn off that broadcast, idiots. If I have to execute every last one of you clones, I…” The console went quiet.

The scout took his energon glass from the table, sat on his berth, and looked at the tiny waves in the blue liquid, caused by his shaking hands. He wasn’t even curious if the idea for the show was Megatron’s, Starscream’s, or the Vehicons’ (in which case, he assumed, soon-to-be-dead Vehicons’). There were no Autobots on the Nemesis, no rescue, now or ever - who was he kidding? The Autobots wouldn’t rescue him if they thought he had joined the love of his life.

Bumblebee waited out the trembling of his frame, then opened his mask enough to drink, sipping while his systems settled down. He sighed, then gave the command to replace all instances of ‘little scout’ in his file with just ‘scout’. If he had to defragment in short snippets, he would. When his processor was somewhat more functional, he could decide how to operate as an Autobot army of one.

The door hummed, unlocked, and then slid open. The angry warlord entered, and strode to Bumblebee, who gave him a defiant glare, too tired to be afraid anymore. ::Hard to find good help these days, Megatron? Or were you play-acting for me?::

Megatron shook his head and scowled. Was it embarrassment peeking from under his anger? Bumblebee couldn’t tell. The warlord took a chip from his subspace and put it on the berth next to him. “This has my comm frequency. Call me if… anything. I’ve put Starscream and two of his Seekers on guard duty.”

If that was meant to reassure Bumblebee, it failed. He watched Megatron go, then put his glass down on the floor and took the chip. Malware? Just like there had been no point in poisoning his energon, there would have been no point in hiding hacks. The ‘Cons could shove their Cortical Psychic Patch up Bumblebee’s processor any time they wanted. He put the chip in his wrist port, ran the short code through his antivirals just because it was a good routine to do so, and added the frequency to his comm system.

He dropped the chip down by his berth next to his energon cube. He saw no reason to keep Megatron’s brand of ship-shape order.

Bumblebee spent the next joor or so struggling with his recharge protocols. He had to abandon three stories mid-way because scenes from them linked up with the ungentle events of the last two days. He was tempted to comm Megatron just to wake him up too, but that would have been neither sane nor safe. The warehouse story still worked, but he knew from experience it would be several recharge cycles before his emotional matrix once more engaged with it strongly enough. The fourth story he tried, which was not only impossible in the known universe but also surreal, finally put Bumblebee under.

Only to be woken up - he checked right away this time - less than two joors later.

::Let’s talk. We don’t have much time:: - the binary beeps were similar to Bumblebee’s own, though at a lower average tone. The source of the sound was in the room - where? He sat up on the berth, ran a scan, found a spark signature, and then saw a piece of the purplish-gray wall disconnect into a separate shape that hovered mid-air. The shape’s surface ran through with a change in color, converting bit by bit into lighter grays. Its planes rearranged themselves into six sharply pointed, curvilinear wings, a larger pair in the middle, smaller pairs over and under, with a sleek arrow of the body between them. Laserbeak.

Wait, Laserbeak wasn’t a drone? Laserbeak could talk? Apparently so, because Laserbeak said, ::The cameras are looped. We have four kliks until the next recalibration in the surveillance system will break my hack. Are you awake enough to listen?::

::Yes, I guess,:: Bumblebee said. Should he comm Megatron? Soundwave’s little drone - no, not drone, little mech - was a deadly sniper. But Laserbeak didn’t seem hostile, and with two joors of recharge, Bumblebee wasn’t quite at the edge of stasis with fatigue. Some curiosity even came back. ::Did you come through the air vents?:: he asked.

::Don’t be ridiculous,:: Laserbeak buzzed, inexplicably reminding the scout of Arcee, and he decided to tag Laserbeak as female. She continued, ::This is a real ship, not one from your stories. Our air vents have grills welded into them. I hacked the door lock.::

::What do you want?::

::I want you out of here. When the time comes, I will help you escape.::

::What now? Why?!:: Bumblebee couldn’t believe his audios. Maybe he was in a bad defrag feedback, still recharging.

::It’s complicated. I don’t have time to explain. My master is unhappy because you are here. You want out of here. I want you out. Is that not enough?::

::Why would I believe you, Laserbeak?::

The top pair of wings lifted up and then dropped: a shrug. ::If you don’t cooperate and I can’t arrange your escape, I’ll arrange an accident. Escape is better, because we’ve had enough deaths. I agree with Megatron on that. Give me your secured frequency so I can comm you. Now!::

Bumblebee had many more questions. Laserbeak’s frame trembled, although from what he couldn’t tell. ::Hurry!:: she beeped, rotating in the air as if ready to leave.

Bumblebee hesitated, then beamed his code out, short-range.

::Acknowledged,:: Laserbeak said.

The door opened a tiny crack. Laserbeak didn’t look alarmed, so it must have been her doing. She flattened herself on the door panel, and her surface color rippled and changed, merging with the background. She bent the tip of her wing into the door opening - the movement only noticeable because Bumblebee knew exactly where she was - and with a motion that felt slow but was over in no time, fold-flowed out of the room, as if she were made of frictionless nanite liquid. The door closed and locked, its sound muted somehow.

Bumblebee had considered himself a decent infiltrator, but Laserbeak’s visit was at a whole different level. She had class. The scout felt a bit of a crush, in a purely professional way, of course.

His next several joors had passed in a frozen state of transition, neither recharge nor alertness. The scout had put most systems on standby, turned down sensory data streams, and directed most processor cycles into the inefficient conscious defrag, to sort and tag data piece by piece. The method was so slow that it barely covered his sensory input plus an occasional stray thought, so Bumblebee had had to damp most of his processor activity. In that state, he couldn’t strategize, daydream, or review the weird current events.

At least his memory banks and processor weren’t growing even messier with fatigue, and his electromechanical systems weren’t jolted yet again when he heard an alarm. He wondered if the ‘Cons lived like that, one mishap after another, when he wasn’t around, and if their whole faction wouldn’t be nicer if only the lot of them had a cycle or ten of decent recharge.

This was a standard Decepticon all-hands-alert signal. It stirred up a thought of a rescue: a small hope, which Bumblebee promptly squished. As he turned his head to look at the loud console, not bothering to get up, Starscream’s face appeared on it. The air commander’s optic ridges were raised high, and his spidery hands were clenched in front of his chest. Apprehensive? His voice replaced the alarm, saying, “I, ugh, that is, we… The Seekers… There has been an accident. The scraplets are loose on the ship. I repeat, we have an infestation of scraplets.”

Megatron’s face appeared on the console next to Starscream. “Change of plans, everybody.” Somehow, the calmness of that low voice was more threatening than the earlier growls and bellows. “Game parties, prepare the shuttle and be ready in one joor. We depart for Cybertron, now. My second in command is quite capable of cleaning up his mess, I trust?”

Bumblebee heard a timid, “Yes, my lord,” from the console, and a distinctive high-pitched whirr and clang from the ceiling. He saw a scraplet gnawing through the air vent cover. The grills Laserbeak had mentioned had been an appetiser before the main course of scout.

Megatron continued, voice still deceptively calm, “Starscream, transfer your guard post to Shockwave and report to the bridge. Bring a whip.” The warlord’s broadcast blinked out. The resigned Starscream repeated, “Yes, my lord,” and turned his broadcast off as well. Bumblebee thought he heard relief in the commander’s voice. Megatron was too pragmatic to whip mechs before executing them.

The scout looked around the sparse room, as devoid of anything he could weaponize as it had been when he first entered, and took two empty cubes from the energon dispenser. When the scraplet chewed through the vent cover and, predictably, flew at him, Bumblebee put up the cube, open end first. His hand moved so quickly that the creature had no chance to stop, and hit the cube’s bottom with a loud clang. The scout covered his catch with the second cube, then tied the cubes together with the detailing cloth and put them on the table.

The scraplet’s nightmarish maw, lined with row upon row of laser-sharp teeth, was banging on the cube’s side, to chew through it and reach the scout. The cube’s crystal, as Bumblebee knew, happened to be one of the very few substances in the universe that scraplets couldn’t eat. Giving up, the creature closed its mouth. Instantly cute and innocent, it folded down its hind and middle legs to sit. The scraplet looked up at the scout with its oversized purple optics, one captive to another.

::I’ll call you Steve,:: Bumblebee said. ::Good morning, Steve.::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Dragonofdispair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair/works) and [DarthKrande](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthKrande/pseuds/DarthKrande/works) for the chat about the 'Cons faking Autobot distress signals. I like your idea of fun!


	6. Understanding Is a Three-Edged Sword (Part 1 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bumblebee is trying to get some rest, Megatron has none. He is too busy with his new role as the point-of-view character, the lord and master of exposition. In Part 1, Megatron and Starscream share high-grade and reminisce about Kaon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Starscream, Megatron/Soundwave/Starscream, Bumblebee, Knock Out  
> Tags: BDSM, Electric Play, Sticky, Frottage, Starscream's Purple Prose, Gladiators
> 
> Dragonofdispair’s comic When All You Have Is a Scraplet made me laugh so hard I cried. Warning for Megatron revealing his absolutely _glorious_ ::censored::
> 
> Fics and Fears begins after Episode 9 Season 3 of the TFP show. Just like the show, here the Decepticons have just lost the Insecticon hive to the zombie plague, and maneuvered the Autobots to destroy Predacon clones. The Autobots live in a hastily repurposed hangar at a US Air Force base. They are short on resources; they have to replace Ultra Magnus’ ruined hand with a crude claw, so Bee is terrified of losing a limb. In contrast, the Decepticons still have most of their infrastructure, including energon mines, labs, and the interstellar travel. Megatron feels they are on the brink of victory. 
> 
> Events of Chapters 1-5 have only two differences from the show: Bumblebee is captured, and the Autobots have to relocate to another base. From here, Fics and Fears has its own events, including back stories. 
> 
> Megatron here and the TFP Megatron have differences (beyond the obvious one that we get to see his berth games). Fics and Fears Megatron has dealt with his society-destructing rage, and grew ambitions beyond his current position as a warlord of a faction of a small provincial race. These dreams of power call for subtler political arrangements than personal-beatings tyranny over a handful of mechs. Megatron wants at least some Autobots to play roles in scenarios that aren’t public executions. 
> 
> Megatron is still the ruthless gladiator we know and fear (love?), with a chunk of Dark Energon for (a part of?) his spark. But he spends more time in strategy meetings.

“ _Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power._ ”

Megatron raised an optic ridge. “This is entirely too straightforward to be yours, Starscream, and I don’t recall it from any Cybertronian writer of note. Have you been wasting time on human networks, again?”

“Wasting time? Wasting time?! Just because I use relational queries to study our future subjects? Soundwave’s top-down algorithms can suck my afterburners!”

“Good turn of phrase, that quote,” Megatron placated. He sent himself a reminder to poke Starscream later for his inability to tell random browsing from an algorithm. “Can we recruit the author?”

“Dead.” Starscream said curtly. He still bristled, but not enough to call Megatron ‘my lord’ in private. “He was a rebel poet like you, except his words didn’t ignite any revolts.”

“A fusion cannon and words ignite more than words alone. I honed my rhetoric skills in the Pits of Kaon.”

Starscream rolled his optics. “Once a gladiator, always a gladiator.” Megatron noticed commander’s vocalizer still automatically coded his tone with awe when he said the word. The rest was just snarky. “All your world is an arena! All its events, staged one-on-one matches!”

Megatron grinned, choosing not to fight. “Another good turn of phrase. Yours?” Starscream shrugged, and the warlord continued, “Your quote evokes memories. How Soundwave would argue everything in the world was about terror. And I, as you well know, dearest Starscream” - it was the commander’s prompt to grin, and he did - “have been using Soundwave’s and your dead poet’s ideas together.”

“ _Fear and love, but two ends of one space bridge_ ,” Starscream quoted.

Megatron took a sip of high-grade, closed his optics, and recited the rest of his old poem to his second in command. Their plans done for now, the warlord and his second in command were sprawled in an oversized chair in a small meeting room, Megatron slowly stroking the delicate smaller winglets on Starscream’s back. In jet mode, these became wing tips, dense with finely calibrated sensors for pressure, temperature, and speed of the atmosphere, or of lover’s fingertips. Starscream, stubbornly a decorative Towers princeling despite all he’d been through, pointed his toes and angled his hips as he draped himself over the warlord’s bulkier frame.

He gave the poem one-handed applause against Megatron’s interface panel, and the warlord opened it. “My turn to read!” Starscream said and began right away (slightly overacting, Megatron thought): _“Megatronus’ fighting style in the arena is full of innuendo and dark promise. If you are one of the lucky few to have experienced Jazz’s private lap dance in his exclusive night club (see Issue 24), you will appreciate the similarity. The impossible airy ballet of Megatronus’ footwork obliterates all past theories of battle balance, just like the formidable gladiator destroys his every opponent. If you fight Megatronus, he’ll be close, very close: in your immediate space, in your face, almost but not quite in the embrace of your arms. He’ll ghost over your armor, he’ll flirt with your weapons_ ,” Megatron heard a click, and felt familiar ridges slide along his spike, “ _he’ll seduce you or force you, to dance or to fight according to his crazy intimate scenario. He’ll build the tension to a climax, and then he will strike!_ ” Starscream’s spike was sliding up and down Megatron’s in time with gentle complex squeezes of commander’s slender fingers. His voice grew raspy with static. “ _The opening Megatronus exploits will surprise the crowd, the seasoned gladiators watching the fight, and even the arena announcer. A nanoklik too late, you will recognize the beauty of the previous moves as a sequence leading to the last one, and the dreadful inevitability of the ultimate blow. As you lie dying at Megatronus’ feet, take solace. You can claim a sliver of the crowd’s wild cheer for your role in the glorious show._ ”

“Our virgin interview,” Megatron teased.

“Unlike the next one,” Starscream retorted with a smirk.

Megatron nibbled on the air commander’s red antenna, and watched his smirk dissolve into a gasp. Starscream’s heated face wasn’t that different from Megatron’s memory of the wide-opticked young noble, clearly an enthralled fan asking daring, deep, thoroughly researched questions for his irreverent periodical, _‘Fusion: Cybertron’s Hottest Entertainers.’_

“Ah, the next one, ah, yes,” Megatron was starting to gasp as well. “With the _evocative_ cover. Very, ah, tasteful and artistic.”

Apparently, the old compliments still worked, because Megatron felt an EM flare, and Starscream whispered, staticky, “It’s been… too long, these memories… war and…” Megatron heard the clicks of a resetting vocalizer. Starscream slowed down his caress of their spikes, and said, smile belying the complaint, “Too bad that cover had _‘Fusion’_ banned in four city-states!”

“My memory file lists six,” Megatron corrected. Starscream’s smile grew triumphant. “And you loved the publicity. Didn’t your subscriptions double overnight?”

“Almost tripled!” Starscream moaned, leaning over to demand a kiss that turned reminiscences silent, except for the whirr of their vents and the quiet unpredictable taps of Starscream’s fingers.

After that first interview, Starscream had taken to bribing arena guards so he could join the Soundwave-Megatronus debates in the gladiators’ mess hall. He’d spent a small fortune on the VIP lodge ticket for their most anticipated arena fight. Megatronus’ love and terror had won over Soundwave’s terror. The crowd had screamed for energon and death, but believed their darling victorious hero when he’d promised an even better show, and then had claimed his fallen opponent in a different manner.

“I still think you bribed some of the senators yourself to cause those bans,” Megatron said, slightly muffled because he didn’t break their kiss all the way.

“I still think you and Soundwave had agreed on the finale of your fight before it even started” - Starscream’s evasive maneuver was as swift as if they were in air battle.

Megatron grinned and felt the mirror grin on the other’s lips. Then Starscream did a thing with his tongue, diving deep into their kiss as Megatron dived back into his memory stream.

Starscream had joined the gladiators right after the fight, for another interview that merged into plans of revolution that merged into lovemaking. Megatronus and Soundwave could barely move for injuries, high on painkillers. In contrast to his risqué media persona, the real Starscream had been a terribly shy virgin. But they’d been young, strong, and stubborn. It had taken the three mechs of very different frame-types half a night to find a workable interface configuration - almost as long as it took them to fit their immature, passionate revolutionary theories together.

The next issue of _‘Fusion’_ had opened with a high-res animated loop showing a close-up of branched purple lightning: a glorious overload coruscating over the arena’s energon-stained metal,  to the soundtrack of riotously shocked and awed cheers. The article meaningfully mentioned that later in the night, the excitement had exploded into real riots. The rest had been history, its slow grating progress lubricated by energon and transfluid.

Megatron was startled out of his mounting charge and his memories when Starscream asked, “Why don’t we fetch your new pet to join us? He looks pretty in chains, even if he writes primitive stories.” The commander must have been thinking about that threesome too, but it had been complicated with Soundwave.

“I know who else looks beautiful in chains,” Megatron growled. Starscream heeded the warning in the tone of the compliment, and didn’t argue. It was a good idea about Bumblebee, the warlord thought - but with someone who had more control than Starscream of when to impart information and when to withhold it.

Megatron reached into Starscream’s subspace, and searched among the toys. Finding no chains tonight, he loosely coiled an energon whip around the commander’s legs, and then reached from behind and stuck its handle into Starscream’s valve. The commander made a high little yelp no mech who valued his life, or at least his audios, would call ‘cute’.

Starscream tried to wiggle free. Megatron obliged and pinned him, a knee over legs and a hand on a wing, his grasp hard enough that fingers made small dents. Starscream’s hands and spike moved faster, and he said, voice raspy but tone matter-of-fact, “First setting. I don’t want burn marks.”

Megatron was glad he’d read the commander right this time. Soon after Megatron’s return to Earth he had realized that submission and pain Starscream had begun to crave in berth were but the flip side of his ambitions to be number one in the ranks. When Megatron had quit these games cold, Starscream’s attempts to usurp the power had grown more frequent and desperate.

At the next almost-execution for treachery, standing over the cowering, beaten commander in an abandoned energon mine, Megatron had said with a smirk, “Are you so frustrated that your processor glitches beyond any hope of coherent tactics?”

Starscream had been too busy pleading for his life to comment on the taunt. A few more futile coups and unplayful punishments, and something gave in Starscream. He crawled back to Megatron, the tribute of Omega Keys in one hand and his own almost-lost t-cog in the other, begging forgiveness and medical help.

Megatron saw many signs the commander had truly accepted his second place in the ranks. Even his cravings for chains with a sprinkle of humiliation had mutated. All in all, Megatron enjoyed the intricate layers of their berthtime scenarios. But on some days, he felt impatient with Starscream’s ‘top from the bottom’ charade (or whatever it was), making wrong moves that left the commander angry, and not in the fun pretend ways.

Not that infuriating Starscream wasn’t good sport, or useful at times, but Megatron didn’t want to be _clumsy_ about it. Serious strife within the Decepticon command wouldn’t do with history in one of its moments of rapid transition. The Decepticons had to work together: the analysts doing their data magic, the military demonstrating that all resistance was futile, and the scientists restoring their planet. Soundwave, Starscream, and Shockwave. The leader’s job was to keep key players aligned with himself and his cause, the Decepticon cause, on Cybertron and Earth first, and then across the galaxy. He had to weave their scenarios into one glorious tale - as he reflected with a quiet sigh, moving the whip’s handle in and out of its dripping sheath to bring his commander to overload.

It had been years since Megatron had made any little stories for his own enjoyment.

Distracting thoughts had almost dissipated Megatron’s charge. He willed himself to focus on the present, to roughly massage Starscream’s wing, to pulse his EM field through his spike in time with Starscream’s pelvic thrusts. When the sparkles started to fly, Megatron yanked Starscream’s legs up by one heel: he didn’t want to share what would come next. He turned down his audios, and pushed the button for the first setting on the whip’s handle.

“Beautiful,” Megatron whispered, without any chance Starscream would hear over his cries.

The commander’s frame spasmed wildly, then froze. Megatron felt Starscream’s field as a raging solar storm that went on and on and on, his charge locked at a plateau of orgasmic heights, as only Starscream knew how. Normally Megatron would be along for the ride, but he had much work tonight, and only allowed himself a small overload from the spike, its biolight strips blinking a pale echo of Starscream’s fireworks.

The commander fell into stasis. Megatron turned off the whip and got up. He took a human-made soft detailing cloth from the stack in his subspace and cleaned himself, Starscream, his toy, and the chair. Megatron finished his drink, and refilled Starscream’s cube with high-grade. He pinged the Nemesis roster; Knock Out was back from his daily drive.

Megatron ordered Knock Out to meet him by the scout’s quarters, and slowly walked there, systems settling after the overload. He retrieved his file with Bumblebee’s reactions to the doctor’s distinctive berthside manners, and replayed the clips where the scout had lost his stoic control. First, he’d pulled on his shackles and beeped, ‘Don’t!’ against Knock Out reading from his file. Second, he’d truly panicked, thrashed and cried ‘No!’ and screamed when Knock Out said, ‘Open your interface panel.’ But Megatron thought the third _#LossOfControl_ clip most telling: when the shackled, threatened and terrified, recently tortured scout relaxed to the reading and a favorable review of his story.

In the clip on his HUD, Megatron saw Bumblebee’s optics brighten and door wings tremble; he was rather certain he’d see a smile if it wasn’t for the mask. He sent a reminder to take care of that mask later.

Seeing the scout (and Knock Out) so enchanted, Megatron thought Starscream was wrong to call these stories ‘primitive.’ Often silly, yes; Soundwave’s analysis of likely reactions made Megatron keep the stories from his army’s rank and file. At least the officers knew to laugh at the author, rather than the mech who’d inspired the sappy central character, the Megatron who could never be in this universe.

No, the stories weren’t primitive, and had kinks that played into Megatron’s plans, yet their power foundation was plain: two equal mechs in a free and gentle exchange. Autobotish through and through, but how refreshingly straightforward after… Starscream! The warlord would soon introduce new twists into Bumblebee’s scenarios, to better nudge the scout toward his planned role. A pity, Megatron thought; but at least he would keep the original stories.


	7. Understanding Is a Three-Edged Sword (Part 2 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron has a meeting with Shockwave and Knock Out. Both mechs remind him, in different ways, why doctors are creepy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron, Shockwave, Knock Out, Bumblebee  
> Tags: Mindfrag, Plug and Play Masturbation, Empurata, Fear of Doctors, Mention of Necrophilia, Scientifically Optimized Sex

Knock Out rubbed his right elbow where Bumblebee had captured it in a lock. “That was entertaining!” he drawled with a crooked smile.

“It was a flawless maneuver,” Megatron corrected, pointedly ignoring doctor’s meaning. “A good _entertainer_ would break your wrist, at the very least.”

“The scout was easier to provoke the first time, but I have more ideas to try, my liege.” Knock Out shrugged. He was still smirking, apparently unashamed that he kept his taunts weak when their victim wasn’t shackled hand and foot. “You can call me for berthside visits to this patient any time!”

“Yes, I can,” Megatron growled, just to watch that insolent smile vanish and the doctor tense all over, as if expecting a blow. Megatron didn’t hit the doctor, just said, “Walk with me to _Shockwave’s_ lab.” It used to be Knock Out’s.

At least the indulgent prick hadn’t repeated that nonsense about his shift ending a joor ago. He cast a sideway glance at Megatron’s chest, then his eyes. But Megatron knew there would be no purple glow: his good mood helped him control the base urges from the Dark Energon.

It had been most satisfying to see his scout pass the latest test with flying colors (even if the colors flown were Autobot banners for now). He remained resourceful, unbroken, yet willing to follow reasonable commands. What Bumblebee considered ‘reasonable’ would change with time and careful pressures.

And Knock Out would need consistent discipline. Let him think of rewards first, Megatron decided, and said, “Soon, you’ll have more opportunities to administer care to our guest. Accidents happen at the games. We wouldn’t want the scout’s shiny finish marred by a scratch.”

“That would be simply tragic.” Knock Out’s smirk was back, as the doctor savored both prospects: fun accidents for his car-racing rival, and repairing the scout after.

Megatron’s fists clenched, and he forced them to relax. He despised flinching at atrocity, but that smile never failed to make him imagine hacks and mutilations only a medic could perform. Megatron wanted no taboo on interface fantasies, yet Knock Out’s play with the frame of his dead conjux endura had put that principle to a dire test. There was no avoiding the only specialist medic Decepticons had, so Megatron viewed Knock Out as an exercise in dealing with these pesky hang-ups.

At least, until they were able to gain Ratchet.

Knock Out and Megatron walked in silence. The warlord focused on the HUD overlay, streaming video from Bumblebee’s quarters: the scout was tossing and turning in his berth, still not in recharge. Megatron saved a clip.

The lab’s door opened to Megatron’s code. Shockwave was working, elbow-deep in a contraption with thousands of parts, each a complex device. Several dozen cables linked some of the devices to lab consoles, to the broadband port of the Nemesis mainframe, and to Shockwave’s data ports, all but one. There, a stand-alone device was plugged, as if the scientist’s ribbed spinal strut grew a fat appendage in his colors: gray and purple with magenta biolights. Out of curiosity, Megatron had learned how that worked: at his request, Shockwave had made him a copy, calibrating it to the warlord’s native frequencies through the Cortical Psychic Patch.

Shockwave’s take on the world was unlike any other story, and also refreshingly straightforward, Megatron thought. His logic cut through chains of ideologies, be it Starscream’s ornate metaphors or Soundwave’s pragmatic propaganda. If asked, Shockwave would say, “It is logical that interface is about power,” and would add a terse overview of electromagnetism involved in overloads.

It was his logic that had led the former scientist-senator Shockwave to join the growing Decepticon rebellion, as a crippled victim of a recent empurata. The procedure had erased his memories of what he had done to provoke the sentence, but pure logic had dictated his response. If he hadn’t been safe within Cybertron’s society as a senator, he would never be safe in any social role. And what force had been changing the society the most? Exactly.

Megatron had deeply distrusted all senators, but the Decepticons had had many uses for a good scientist, and what government surgeons had done to Shockwave had been spark-wretchedly _wrong_. Most personal memories gone, emotional matrix gone - and the frame mutilated, crude claws for hands, a single optic for a face, interface equipment removed. About the torture of it, Shockwave had only said, “To suffer from sensory data input is illogical.” It must have been the Pit. Shockwave couldn’t remember.

Cybertronian medics had been forbidden to repair mechs after empurata, but Knock Out had already followed his Towers friend Starscream to Megatron’s camp, lured by the Decepticon victories, the position of top doctor, and free play of the sorts that would cost him his license in any conventional hospital. Yet the only repairs Shockwave had requested as ‘logical’ were his two limbs: restored fingers for his right hand, and in place of his left arm, a powerful plasma cannon of his own innovative design that made shots jump between multiple targets.

Megatron heard clicks: Knock Out reset his vocalizer, no doubt for attention. In contrast, Shockwave simply kept at his task; the warlord thought he could have paused for joors to retag his entire memory banks, and Shockwave would have waited just as quietly and patiently, working, working, working. A state of affairs much appreciated; but Soundwave was wrong to propose similar procedures for their enemies. It would backfire, just as it had for the Senate. Shockwave had kept most modifications - forever keeping those he held responsible in his aiming sights, relentless until they died in battle or perished in his nightmarish labs, together with their system of the world.

Megatron deemed the pause sufficient to teach Knock Out a lesson in patience, and said, “Shockwave, give me the report on the Omega Lock project, the detailed one I told you to prepare. By voice, so I can ask questions in real time.”

The scientist didn’t disconnect from his contraption, but turned toward the warlord and stood to attention. Shockwave spoke in smooth, prepared, pithy sentences that Megatron found comforting. “The physical parts of the structure progress as planned, eight percent ahead of my earlier time estimates. All outer components have triple redundancies against failure or sabotage, while the inner construction is…”

The report continued, and the warlord interrupted with questions. Shockwave answered the ones about logistics and physics, and Knock Out about chemistry. By the end of the meeting the doctor sported no smiles: his part of the project lagged far behind schedule. Cringing under Megatron’s glare, he spoke fast. “Modified Synth-En isn’t merely applied engineering, my liege! You cannot rush fundamental science, nor predict how long it takes.”

Would that he worked as quickly as he produced excuses! “Then _apply_ yourself more, doctor. You aren’t on a free exploration grant from the Cybertron Medical Guild.”

Knock Out started to object, but Megatron was distracted by the visuals still streaming to his HUD: the scout, who had managed to initiate recharge about a breem ago, suddenly jumped from his berth and dashed to the room’s console.

“Take a break,” Megatron growled, and directed a broadband stream of data from Bumblebee’s quarters to one of the lab’s consoles.

It came with audio: the Autobot distress signal. Not again, not after all their efforts to cloak and harden the Nemesis against intruders! Was the Prime following on his rush threat from when Bumblebee was first captured, to storm the Nemesis like they had Darkmount, with his pet human military? Megatron typed fast, tracking the source of the Autobot signal to a console in a corridor. He switched half of his screen to a security camera next to it, and saw two Vehicon guards shaking with laughter, by now louder than the distress signal.

“Shut up!” one of them said, and the second guard replied, “I can’t! His face!”

Relieved it wasn’t an attack, Megatron chuckled at Bumblebee’s look: wide-open optics full of eager hope, slowly narrowing in suspicion. He pulled up the guards’ files. Ah, ST-3v3, the grounder who’d been trying to attract Starscream’s attention.

The clone overshot, attracting Megatron’s attention instead, and would have to die for it. Or would he? After all, his prank even worked on the warlord: Megatron had been alarmed, relieved, then amused. The clone had impressive talent in, what was that? Experience design. Officer material? Maybe, but first, Megatron had to take care of appearances.

He demanded a report, yelled at the guards, and then watched them promptly fall to their knees begging to be spared execution, but his spark wasn’t in the performance. Too many distractions. Bumblebee was having a dramatic quiet moment, his helm bowed, his gaze fixed on the half-empty energon cube in his trembling hands. Megatron saved another clip. Knock Out stepped closer, laughing his head off, daring to look at the warlord’s data streams. Clearly, he held too much confidence in his position as the only Decepticon doctor. Shockwave’s hand was inside his contraption, but it wasn’t moving. The device on his back blinked its biolights, and Shockwave’s frame stiffened for a few nanokliks in what Megatron knew to be the quickest, least intrusive, most optimized overload that science could offer. Shockwave deemed it logical to get rid of the excess charge with minimal interruptions to his work. Megatron wondered what had raised Shockwave’s charge in the first place: his lab’s successes summed up for the report, or a new breakthrough in the contraption.

It wouldn’t be the guards’ prank. Social dynamics, however clever, left Shockwave cold.


	8. Understanding Is a Three-Edged Sword (Part 3 of 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron and Soundwave plan the propaganda campaign for their upcoming Earth invasion, including Bumblebee’s role in it, then their interface turns more personal. Megatron stays in to recharge, and for his lullaby, Soundwave shares a new piece called ‘Shadowzone’ from his heavy metal opera ‘Little Tragedies’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Soundwave, Shockwave, Starscream, Knock Out, Bumblebee  
> Tags: Mindfrag, Plug and Play, Sticky, Disturbing Politics, Masturbation, Transforming Interface Equipment, Tentacles, Death Metal Lullaby
> 
> Soundwave’s lullaby is my response to a writing challenge. In part, the challenge read: “Every one of us has something she never writes - for whatever reason. Name it. Name the thing you would not write. Now, choose a character. Your character just read a piece like that. Worse, this character is now enthusiastic about it.” I don’t write tragedies, but Soundwave does, and Megatron is enthusiastic.

Megatron closed his programs on the console, and listened to the rest of Shockwave's report while making decisions. First: obtain Ratchet sooner, to fix the unacceptable delay in developing Synth-En. Second: rearrange the games, to return in time to greet the Autobot medic. Third: replace the scout’s guards with someone more reliable. Shockwave was better deployed in his lab, and Soundwave was needed for tactical planning. The warlord checked on Starscream, who was still in the meeting room. A security camera showed the resilient commander not only awake, but also doing something between his thighs that the camera couldn’t see as he watched something on his console that Megatron didn’t wish to examine.

Maybe he hadn’t been as satisfied earlier tonight as he’d looked.

You and me both, Megatron thought, earlier and now. His mind could handle parallel processes, but they grated on his spark. Soundwave was the one to multitask, never nostalgic for the hyperfocus of arena fights.

At least the report was over. “Excellent progress, Shockwave,” Megatron said, a stock phrase he knew would be appreciated no less than a lavish compliment.

The scientist bowed and went back to work. Megatron turned to leave, and Knock Out made to follow. The warlord pinned him in place with a glare, and kept his voice even when he said, “Where do you think you are going, doctor? An extra shift for you each cycle, until the Synth-En formula is complete!”

Knock Out opened his mouth as if to speak, looked at Megatron’s face, and closed it again. Megatron walked to the scout’s quarters, HUD still streaming the view of Starscream next to the view of Bumblebee.

**Relieve the teams guarding the scout,** the warlord sent to Starscream by text.

Starscream winced, frowned, and inquired, **My lord?** - but then quickly smiled and waved his too-shiny hand, albeit at the wrong camera.

**The second team played a prank. Take a look.** Megatron marked out the relevant clip and had it appear on Starscream’s console.

The commander played the clip at high speed. **Aww, the clone did it for me. How very touching.** Starscream laughed, shaking his head. **It’s been a long day, Megatron. Can I execute them next shift?**

Megatron zoomed in on the commander’s face for a bit of amusement. **You can’t.**

Starscream pouted.

**We will not execute them at all.**

Starscream raised his optic ridges so high they threatened to fly off into space.

**When you take the guards to the brig, hint that you are impressed by their initiative.** The optic ridges landed back, and a smirk appeared. **Promise you’ll give the clones a chance to impress your master as well, so that he may grant them life.** The smirk turned crooked and poisonous. **I will send details later.**

**Yes, Megatron.**

Starscream looked too calculating, so the warlord sent, **Do not lead them to believe they are working for you to betray me - or their execution will be your chore, after all. Megatron out.**

He paused by Bumblebee’s door, and replaced the surveillance feeds going to the guard teams with the glyphs of his name. Soundwave would be alerted for the third time tonight; any klik now, Megatron expected a well-reasoned, data-rich infographic titled, “Security: paramount, privacy: overrated,” with an offer to stand guard any time.

That reminded Megatron to send Soundwave clips, recorded from Megatron’s own sensors: the two walks through the corridors, and how the scout sat on Megatron’s knee. While he was at it, he saved an image of Bumblebee on his lap (the scout’s brave act looking just like his normal perky self), and cropped the shackles out: a memento for their next teleconference with the Prime.

However, in the real-time stream on Megatron’s HUD, Bumblebee still sat hunched and dejected. Tempting. An offer to help him fall into recharge? The warlord indulged in the briefest daydream where that worked, instead of making the scout dead sure Megatron’s hand was behind the prank. Something else, perhaps: a piece of intel the scout would force himself to take, yet also a token of closeness. Megatron took a chip from his subspace, plugged it into his wrist port, wrote his comm frequency in an unsecured file, and subspaced the chip.

He made an indignant face, using a corridor camera stream for his mirror, and entered. Bumblebee’s angry, undaunted gaze stood for applause at Megatron’s performance.

::Hard to find good help these days, Megatron? Or were you play-acting for me?::

A false dichotomy, as Soundwave would point out, if this were a debate. Megatron looked forward to schooling the scout in applied logic.

***

“Humans love their cars, and fear their planes and drones.”

Soundwave inclined his head, and a thick tentacle-cable linking his chest to the main data port at the back of Megatron’s helm pulsed its ring and hexagon pattern of dark-purple biolights. The analyst’s agreement came as a warm wave through their interface. The data that wave bore added pictures to a multi-layered file with Megatron’s plans, kept in his memory banks.

The warlord felt faint reflections of the Nemesis’ security net, Laserbeak sifting through aerial data, queries via the slow human networks, and several dozen other tasks Soundwave ran in parallel. They stood in front of a big bank of monitors in the analyst’s quarters, and his second tentacle was plugged into a Nemesis port. This custom bank, Laserbeak’s empty recharge perch on the wall, and a small holostatue of a cat-former in the corner were the only signs the spacious quarters were lived in.

Megatron and Soundwave were composing the propaganda layer of the warlord’s file. Friendly car-formers like Bumblebee and Ratchet would become their front, the everyday icons of trust. To complement them, scary fliers like Soundwave would appear sparingly, to raise awe of Cybertron’s power. A winning strategy.

Now to work out the tactics. “Technology: will come exclusively from the Decepticons. Direct source: our capital on Cybertron. Never the Autobots.” Soundwave’s voice via the interface didn’t break his vow of silence. The rich reverberations and harmonic overtones came to Megatron’s processor in encoded perfection.

It wasn’t the same as audios catching the air waves a vocalizer made. Soon! Megatron would hear that voice once again when their victory lifted Soundwave’s vow. He had thought he missed their old debates too, their two voices together while opposite, igniting the crowds. But now that they had disagreements, he remembered how harsh his opponent had been. ‘ _Never the Autobots_ ,’ Soundwave said, dead set against any non-combat involvement with their enemies, his opinion of them always, _‘Mechs: unreliable, beliefs: inferior.’_

Megatron paused, but could find no fault with the tech item - unlike Soundwave’s other suggestions of late. How could the analyst be so blind to the fatal faults of slave coding and processor-washing hacks?

The warlord sent his ‘acknowledged-approved’ with a curt wave of charge, and they began to sort tech lures for the humans. The details were numerous, boring, and all-important. Biolight strips, weak-antigrav scooters, and other trinkets: share fully, down to the basic science, to whet the humans’ appetite. Blasters, solar system range shuttles, comm tech: share the hobbled products with select few human loyalists who would have to ask nicely every time the batteries ran out. Interstellar starships, fusion cannons, the replica Omega Lock: humans would be permitted to petition for benefits, but never for use on their own.

“Soundwave, let’s say, a flood threatens several million humans in…” Megatron began.

“Latest flood of that magnitude: Bangladesh.” Soundwave supplied, updating their file with a data card.

Megatron paused to look up details as he spoke, “The senator… ‘president’ of that city-state… ‘country’ can ask for the Nemesis to cyberform a strong sea wall for them. You will hint that the Nemesis could just as easily turn their main habitation cluster... Dhaka, into another chunk of metal. While Bumblebee will guide the humans to organize a… ‘festival parade’ in our honor.”

Megatron sensed the cold pulse of Soundwave’s doubt, and braced himself for a data-driven attack on one of his ‘fanciful stories.’ Instead, the analyst offered a summary. “The Autobots: banned technology export. Policy: inferior. Humans: always subjugate to the highest-tech hegemon. Estimated population support for Earth as a Cybertronian protectorate, within one human generation from the change: 74% to 82%, depending on the country.” Soundwave paused, that cold pulse cycling between them, then added: “The Autobots as our willing representatives: up the estimates by 7% to 12%.”

It looked like Soundwave was moving on, beyond his disapproval. Finally! “Excellent analysis, Soundwave! That must have taken massive data sifting. It’s a _pleasure_ to see you work.”

The warlord sent so much charge through the cables that they were forced to pause. Megatron closed the strategy file, turned off the stream from the quarters of his (currently recharging) scout, disconnected from the incessant pings of the Nemesis and faction-wide status alerts, and basked in the rare luxury of full physical immersion, with the only being in the universe he could trust.

Soundwave also closed down his other tasks to honor the moment, as Megatron felt through the link. The warlord listened, and waited, and there it was: the chimes, high-low-high tings, a gradient of small-large-small spokes, played like a series of crystal bells. The servomotor added a contrary bassy EM hum, quiet in the middle, louder at the start and the end. The strangest and loveliest part of the melody, Megatron thought, was a ghostly glissando, the suddenly compressed air teasing resonant frequencies from delicate surfaces.

It was as if Megatron’s whole frame resonated too: the familiar response to the familiar promise of a sweet transformation sequence. Soundwave’s interface equipment reconfigured itself for a perfect fit to Megatron’s: the valve on top, the spike under. The warlord lifted his slender lover, arms under knees, Soundwave’s smooth long hands on Megatron’s back. A tentacle as strong as the warlord’s arms twined into the embrace and slid around their frames twice. The delicate red-tipped feelers at its end caressed a wrist data port, opened it, and linked up for fuller synch. In thrusts gentle and ruthless, two spikes entered two waiting valves at once.

***

Their time away from the world had been too brief, as usual. Megatron reconnected to the networks and (through the one still-linked tentacle) felt Soundwave do the same. They could enjoy the post-overload haze in peace: during their private time, there had been no new Autobot attacks, zombie plagues, or Unicron awakenings.

Unlike Unicron, the scout was wide awake. Megatron checked a recording, but found nothing. Maybe telling Bumblebee about Starscream guarding him had been a mistake, if Megatron wanted the scout functional for the games. Megatron said, “Check for any intrusions into Bumblebee’s quarters.”

After a pause to review, Soundwave replied, “Negative.”

The cold pulse of the analyst’s disapproval was unpleasant, but unsurprising. The taste of tonight’s gentle interface with Soundwave resonated with the feel of the scout’s file. The analogy was neither new nor lost on the analyst. He and Megatron even agreed that the analogy might extend, Bumblebee growing as ruthless in politics as Soundwave. They agreed on the analysis, yet debated its conclusions: promise vs. danger.

Megatron sighed. “Let’s discuss the scout next. Take a look.” The warlord shared multi-sensory data from the beginning of their first walk. “A klik ago, Bumblebee was in panic, he was sure I came to hurt him. And here he is - optics unfocused, the EM field half way to recharge…” Megatron’s engine revved up, to which the stoic Soundwave didn’t respond. “Bumblebee has the instinct for submission.”

Soundwave retorted with the image where the scout dug in his heels during the second walk.

“Yes, yes, you are right, he snaps out of it when he notices a fresh problem. Yet there is always a pause before he reacts. An opening, so we can nudge him as we need.”

“Physical submission: misleading; consider Starscream. Bumblebee: will cooperate, not collaborate. Not without reprogramming. Smokescreen: could be broken to true obedience.”

That old argument again; but the less-experienced, safer Autobot lacked all subtlety. Megatron automatically voiced his old objection, “We need our main representative to think _._ Would other Autobots or neutrals follow anyone who _truly obeys_ me?” But the new data gave Megatron new ammunition, and he pressed his advantage. “Would such a _broken_ representative pacify the five to twenty percent of the human dissidents that you predict? No, grudging cooperation is perfect!” Megatron pulled up an image of Bumblebee on his knee. “If he thinks it’s for the good of others, and that he has a choice, he will play along. Besides, I do believe a part of him likes to spend time with me.”

Soundwave sent a pulse of his agreement, albeit overlaid with concern, and said, “Scout’s reactions to forced overload: unexpectedly slight. Forced interface: top taboo among the Autobots.”

“His stories help him cope. More than cope: to align with me, with us! We still need to cure him of a few hang-ups, though. Soundwave, imagine just as slight a reaction when we push a policy Bumblebee has to follow.”

“Megatron: overextends analogies. Prognosis: uncertain.”

“Let us gather more data then,” said Megatron with a grin.

“Cortical Psychic Patch?” Soundwave suggested.

“As far as the scout believes, that doesn’t mean… cooperation. How about a different vehicle of access?” Megatron stroked the smooth warm tentacle hanging from his helm, which lightly trembled at the touch. “I bet we will soon have opportunities to connect the three of us much _closer_.”

“Megatron’s bet: accepted. ‘Cooperation’: implies no direct force, no direct threats.”

Megatron was as delighted as ever to see Soundwave turn around and follow his lead in their current staged fight. He murmured, “Leave force to Starscream. You and I, Soundwave - we can ensure _cooperation_ by our charm.” Sensing the analyst’s not-entirely-humorous doubt through the interface, Megatron added, “And of course, by our stunningly beautiful looks!”

“Initial show of force: sufficient for now.” Soundwave sort-of agreed.

***

By the time Megatron and Soundwave finished with the expedited plans to capture Ratchet, and with the details of the games, about three joors were left until their flight. Megatron had not yet announced the new time to the army; the surprise departure would double as a speed drill.

The warlord stayed with Soundwave for recharge. They shared a nightcap of mid-grade bitters, rich in additives, and the analyst’s berth, which had settings for Megatron’s half saved in its memory. Megatron would recharge sprawled and free of touch, other than the tentacle in his helm. Dual processing meant faster defrag, especially with Soundwave’s overclocked data-sort systems. Sleepily, Megatron said, “How are your _Little Tragedies_ coming along?”

“New song: ready in the first draft. Tentative title: ‘Shadowzone’.” Then, sounding hesitant for the first time today, the analyst asked, “Megatron: wishes to hear?”

“Of course, old friend. Don’t be shy.”

Some songs in Soundwave’s opera truly were tragedy, others escalated into horror. After the first klik of the night’s lullaby, Megatron decided this story required a completely different scale to measure its dread. He wasn’t familiar with the style of music, probably adopted from aliens: massive low percussion at the emphatic twice-the-sparkbeat pace; the sheer sonic violence of the secondary cymbals, several binary orders of magnitude faster; heavy, random distortions of the melody and the vocal; and a continuous atonal string of bass frequencies (reminding Megatron of Soundwave’s interface transformation), louder than the words, making the lyrics hard to understand and tearing the story into disjointed flashes.

In the song, a security breach turned into an all-out battle. Soldiers died when the enemies stormed the Nemesis. The hero fought, brave and clever, but was caught in a dirty ground-bridge hack. He stood in shadows, out of phase and out of tune, helpless and hopeless, seeing his comrades killed by the invaders, while his fists, tentacles, and weapons passed right through them unnoticed.

“Bravo, Soundwave!” Megatron said. “The finale was my favorite. Very moving.” He received a wave of warm gratitude through the interface, and continued, “Slower music, stumbling words… I could almost taste the despair. No death in battle, no climactic execution. Just watching your enemies fly the ship around, chat, live their stupid mundane lives, while you are invisible, forgotten, and slowly starving to death.” Megatron shuddered.

Soundwave must have felt the berth shake, because he responded with a quiet, “Yes!”

He sounded as sleepy as Megatron felt. In the face of the unreal tragedy, it was so very _nice_ to have quiet recharge with a trusted lover.

Megatron and Soundwave rested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In memory of my beta’s cat, who passed out at the time of the chapter’s writing.


	9. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These two pieces are outside of the main story sequence, but I believe they add to the story. The first is a drabble, set during the times (mentioned in Chapter 6) when Starscream was on the run. It is a response to Ultharkitty’s prompt, ‘Megatron/Soundwave, perfect melody’. The second, also a response to a prompt from my writing group, has thirty-five ‘behind the scenes’ declarative sentences about Knock Out, the noble anarchist doctor who has a suspiciously high probability of failing Megatron’s tasks.
> 
> The next chapter will take us back to Bumblebee’s perspective. It starts where we left him, having a one-sided, recharge-deprived conversation with Steve the scraplet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Soundwave, Starscream, Knock Out  
> Tags: Non-Explicit Sticky, Loneliness, Sabotage, Plot Spoilers, Mention of Necrophilia, Disturbing Doctor Hobbies

 

_Happy birthday to you,_

Megatron’s heavy, surprisingly lithe body bent over Soundwave, holding him over the edge, above nothing. Fear and loyalty, visibly resonating in perfect tension. Their lips met, right at the end of the line, optics dimmed, but biolights flashed as their electromagnetic fields came into sync, echoing - to you - to you.

_Happy birthday to you,_

Megatron swirled around, lifting Soundwave as though he weighed nothing, his broad hand landing over the spymaster’s overheated interface array, his own panel caressed in turn by delicate thin digits. Interface covers clicked open. To you. To you.

_Happy birthday, dear Starscream,_

Suddenly, he felt exhausted. Lack of energon did that to you. Even when he had good 3D models of his former fellow officers, meticulous animation up to Starscream’s exacting aesthetic standards took forever. Not that he had anything else to do in his exile, alone and forgotten on his sparking day. He pasted a low-resolution human cartoon of a tap-dancing monkey over the rest of the song, and played the file beginning to end, feeling numb.

_Happy birthday to you…_

 

* * *

 

Everything Bumblebee wanted to know about Knock Out, but was afraid to ask.

  1. Knock Out is an obfuscating fragger who has masks under his masks.
  2. Knock Out is a battle pragmatist.
  3. There isn’t anything Knock Out finds disturbing or frightening, though he pretends that organic interfacing squicks him, Megatron terrifies him, and the prospect of a scratch is unacceptable.
  4. Megatron discriminates against Knock Out as a doctor and a noble, and Knock Out is very aware of the warlord’s phobias.
  5. Knock Out liked Starscream in their youth, and they still maintain a friendly relationship, for the Decepticon value of ‘friendly’.
  6. Sometimes Knock Out wonders if there is an open door somewhere in the multiverse, and behind it mechs who are waiting for the real him with trust and love; the thought usually reminds him to have another drinking game with Starscream.
  7. Knock Out has frequent, long, and thoughtful conversations with Laserbeak.
  8. Knock Out likes Bumblebee and would not mind him as a lover, but has no illusions about the status of their relationship: they are enemies.
  9. In the [games mechs play](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Games_People_Play_\(book\)), Knock Out is the killer (influencer) [type of a gamer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bartle_Test); being also lazy, he opts to scare or squick others, because it’s the easiest reaction to provoke, especially among the neurotic Decepticons.
  10. Breakdown hacked the surveillance system to notify himself and Knock Out when they were being watched; Laserbeak helped.
  11. Knock Out and his conjux endura Breakdown mostly interfaced outdoors, far from the Nemesis, talked on a highly encrypted private frequency, and in general valued and kept their privacy.
  12. Several times, when he knew Megatron was watching, Knock Out made it seem as if he was enjoying Breakdown’s remains sexually.
  13. From what Knock Out knows, Megatron watches him the least of all officers, probably the least of all mechs.
  14. In human terms, Knock Out’s political views are somewhere between anarchist and libertarian, though there have been no opportunities to live most of his ideology.
  15. A car race is always a good distraction for Knock Out; a fast drive is a close second; and detailing himself or another car-former while thinking of races works too.
  16. Knock Out has been quietly sabotaging the Nemesis and Decepticon projects, mostly for his gamer-type satisfaction of easy and accessible influence, but also because tyranny is the opposite of his political views.
  17. Back when Knock Out had first joined the Decepticons, he had thought himself simply sadistic, but Breakdown helped him understand himself in more nuanced ways.
  18. Knock Out took the little yellow toy car from Bumblebee’s subspace.
  19. The only Decepticons who like Knock Out even a little are Starscream and Laserbeak; being left stuck in the door after that phase shifter trick Smokescreen played was a harsh punishment, because of what the Decepticons said and did.
  20. There was a Vehicon who got two fellow clones to stay guard over the stuck Knock Out when insults started to escalate into injuries, preventing most damage - designation ST-3v3.
  21. Knock Out did what the Vehicon wanted, and passed his designation on to Starscream, but the commander didn’t care or pay any attention, because it wasn’t directly about him.
  22. Soundwave had several lengthy consultations with Knock Out about the anatomy, physiology, and chemistry involved in his proposed direct processor-washing of the Autobots; the doctor gave a discouraging spin to the data.
  23. Knock Out would not mar his finish with a faction badge.
  24. Knock Out helps Starscream to breed scraplets and keep them healthy, using the creatures in his experiments, always as gently as possible.
  25. When Knock Out writes little stories, they center on intrigues, betting, spying, and violence in the context of car races.
  26. Knock Out has a large partition in his memory banks where he keeps videos and photos of car race accidents; his oddly specific kink centers on crashes that look like accidents, but are secretly arranged behind the scenes.
  27. Megatron knows Knock Out likes car accidents, and suspects that he likes to cause them for enemies or rivals.
  28. Last time Knock Out asked Megatron’s permission to hold a race among grounder Vehicons, the warlord threatened to shoot Knock Out through his t-cog if he asked one more time.
  29. Knock Out has to treat the Nemesis (Trypticon) for battle injuries, and sometimes uses his medical overrides to poke around the personal memories of the stasis-locked titan.
  30. Knock Out took what remained of Breakdown back to his lab after the zombie plague incident; while Megatron was prevented from watching by his dirty assumptions, the doctor extracted the energon-borne virus of the plague, and kept it as his private bioweapon.
  31. Knock Out’s testing on scraplets confirmed that the zombie plague virus is highly contagious via bodily fluids involved in spike or valve interface.
  32. When Knock Out asked Bumblebee, “Would Prime really let you Autobots interface with a prisoner?” it wasn’t just idle curiosity: he was researching to determine how prisoners are treated, or mistreated, these days.
  33. Knock Out has been asking Starscream about his experiences as an Autobot prisoner and collaborator, being careful to spread the questions over many drinking sessions.
  34. Knock Out appreciates it that the Decepticon spaces are kept clean and orderly.
  35. Shockwave has publicly pointed out that Knock Out’s involvement in a project significantly raises the probability of the project’s failure.




	10. Cables Are Red, Firewalls Are Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee is determined to stay away from any shower scenes, torture scenes, or - Primus forbid! - interface scenes, and manages two and a half out of these three goals. The effects of his stay with the Decepticons catch up with Bumblebee’s processor and spark in dangerous ways. The scout talks about worries and dreams with almost everyone he meets: the clones, Starscream, Megatron, even Steve the scraplet; only Soundwave keeps his vow of silence, at least outside of interface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee/Megatron/Soundwave, Starscream, Steve the Vehicon, Toivo the Vehicon, Vehicons, Seekers, Steve the Scraplet  
> Tags: Psychological Torture, Non-Con, Mentioned Torture, Mindfrag, Plug and Play, Non-Con Bondage, Tentacles, Processor Glitches, Shuttles Are Flimsy
> 
> The story behind Bumblebee’s phrase, “Even Ultra Magnus has a cute little organic” is [‘Fluffy Kitten’](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5670517), my surprisingly satisfying first attempt at writing fluff. 
> 
> I’d love comments on this chapter, because I was trying something new here as well, and want to hear how that was for the readers.

When the Decepticon alert sounded, Bumblebee rebooted the systems he’d put on standby, and stopped the slow conscious defrag he’d been running. He had gotten up, he had moved around (catching a scraplet) and had talked (albeit only to the scraplet) - yet every sensation had the unreal staticky sheen of a dream.

::At least you put my engine in high gear,:: he buzzed at Steve, the scraplet sitting in its improvised prison on the table: two crystal cubes tied together with the gray detailing cloth Megatron had left. ::Thank you for the wake-up alarm.::

The creature opened its maw wide. Bumblebee thought it wanted to try and eat him, but the scraplet just vented deep, closed its mouth, and stretched, in a strangely mech-like pre-recharge routine. ::Have the ‘Cons kept you awake too, Steve?:: Bumblebee asked. Of course, there was no reaction. ::Ignore me, will you? Such poor manners! That’s because I got you second-hand from Starscream. Why can’t I have a nice animal companion, like that turbofox Wheeljack used to keep? Even Ultra Magnus has a cute little organic!::

Why? The same reason he couldn’t have nice high-grade, a decent night’s sleep, or a door that he could unlock. Because, war and Megatron. Did Megatron think of his captive as a bad pet, second-hand from Optimus Prime? Bumblebee’s fuel tank roiled when he recalled being led on a steel cord, walking in circles through the corridors, his mind in that bizarre sleepy fog.

The scout shook his head to dislodge defeatist thoughts, and checked his chrono to decide what to do. The Autobots had been on Earth time, to coordinate with their local allies. Bumblebee liked the whimsical human chronology, as rich and _organic_ as their music, with its mix of units like sixty, twenty-four, and seven. Raf must be asleep now: it was half past midnight at the Autobot base. Optimus and Ultra Magnus must be in a tactical meeting. Were they planning Bumblebee’s rescue, or had they been deceived into thinking he needed none? Bumblebee’s spark contracted in a sudden piercing _need_ to see a friend for just a nanoklik, or to know something of them, anything. What time was it at the new base?

But he didn’t even know which timezone the Nemesis currently occupied. The Decepticons kept the Cybertronian binary time: four joors per shift, four shifts in a cycle, and the last shift of each cycle designated as ‘night’ for recharge. ::The work shift starts in less than a breem,:: Bumblebee informed the scraplet (now laying down, with all six legs neatly tucked underneath). It rankled to be tied to enemy schedules, but the scout couldn’t let it get to him. ::It must be morning _somewhere_. Besides, Cybertronian time makes sense, if I am going there in a joor. I better get ready.::

He did as much of his morning routine as he could without transforming: stretched and relaxed cables, ran the full motion range of elbows and other joints, pulsed his EM, bounced a comm signal within his system, and threw a little testing attack at his firewalls. His frame felt fine; the aches were almost gone. But that woozy unawake state persisted, and the HUD error messages about defrag now came in the energon-blue of immediate danger. Bumblebee braced himself and ran the processor diagnostic.

Primus! That bad? Why would his frame and code betray him so? What sort of scout was he, if he couldn’t even cope with little torture?

Stop, stop that. A natural reaction to a bodily weakness, but not healthy, and covered in basic training. He shouldn’t think that way; but what should he do? At home, he would run, not walk, to Ratchet. Here? Knock Out would molest him again, or Shockwave would experiment on him with the Cortical Psychic Patch, or maybe Soundwave would try and hack him, and - [...]

Bumblebee lost his sensory input and his train of thought in a wave of snow-crash static. When his senses returned, he looked around the unfamiliar purple room in bewilderment, for a nanoklik not remembering where he was, then groaned when it all came rushing back.

Capture; the Nemesis; Cybertron soon. Time to have breakfast.

Bumblebee poured yesterday’s energon into the recycling drain in the dispenser, drew fresh mid-grade, and sat by the table. The scraplet must have smelled fuel, because it looked up and whirred. Bumblebee would have fed it, but the trap was too flimsy to take that risk. ::Do you like shuttles, Steve?:: he asked. ::Maybe you’ve eaten a shuttle before? Was it tasty? Me, I hate shuttles. Well, not the mechs. The drone shuttles. Annoying, unreliable little things.::

Steve must have decided nobody was giving it any energon, side-view mirrors, or shuttles, because it dimmed its optics. It was just like talking with a sleepy Bulkhead: when the Autobots gathered over breakfast to chat about their new day, the Wrecker would only grunt. Bumblebee sighed. Where was he? ::Shuttles! Don’t get me started on their glitchy antigrav! Do you know what’s worse than a shuttle on a long flight? A shuttle on a long flight that is stuffed full of ‘Cons, with one Autobot prisoner for entertainment! At least I don’t :: - [...]

::Oh, slaggit.::

This time, Bumblebee tried to restore what he’d been saying before he blanked out. Something like, _At least I don’t think the Decepticons will pull me behind the shuttle by a chain._ Good thing the glitch had stopped him: he was blabbing out his fears, and the said Decepticons were listening. Did he blab out any secrets? Not that he could recall, and showing fear might be okay. At one of their debriefing/therapy/training sessions after Tyger Pax, Jazz had told him, ‘If they see ya afraid, they might terrorize ya less. Consider ya level of bravery as classified intel.’

Still, a slip of control. Annoying. Dangerous. Bumblebee took several long vents, trying to focus. And focused on something, all right: a random vivid daydream of Starscream dangling on a chain behind their shuttle, as Bumblebee waved at him from a window. During the atmospheric takeoff, so it would _burn_. Bumblebee grinned at the way the air commander thrashed, and was about to add the image to his worry-dream file with _#BetterThanInterface_ tag. Then he cursed, silently this time, and deleted the data from his working memory. No. Let Starscream dream that way.

He could use a distraction. Prepare for the trip, to feel less like luggage? ::I don’t think the ‘Cons will let you on the shuttle, Steve,:: he told the creature, now deep in recharge. ::Let me see what I can pack, then a quick shower, and then we’ll say our good-byes.::

He looked around. The console had quite a few useful components, but who’d allow him to dismantle it? He had a crystal cube, and fuel to go would be nice, but the cubes weren’t sealable. Was anything else sealable? He remembered a bottle of body wash in the shower. He poured it all out, rinsed the bottle with the warm cleanser from the faucet, and filled the bottle with mid-grade. It might get confiscated, but maybe not - just a snack, the scout thought, as he subspaced the bottle…

Or rather, bonked it on his side, when his subspace didn’t open. His HUD blinked, ‘Transformation failure’. Bumblebee covered his face with his hand, and the glowing shackle mocked his glitchy memory. He put the bottle on the table, and went to shower.

Which he should have done before pouring out all the body wash, Bumblebee thought dully. Given the list of processor errors he’d just received, how long would he be able to think at all? How messed-up had his decisions been yesterday? He thought of sitting on Megatron’s lap and shivered.

Bumblebee ran the faucet, then pushed buttons on the temperature regulator. The cleanser turned hot in a few nanokliks. Oh, a local heater, and right by the faucet! If the scout could dismantle the shower’s ceiling before the ‘Cons stopped him, he could do several _interesting_ things. Say, melt the lock on a shackle.

Would the heater just hurt, or melt off his hand? Was it worth trying, with the Decepticons distracted by the scraplets? He stared up, thinking, blanked out, and decided now wasn’t a good time to decide.

Just a shower, then. He stepped under and ex-vented, all troubles gone for a moment. So hot all over his sensory net, so good! The Autobots had eventually added a heater to the human car wash in their base at Jasper. But water’s boiling point was lower than Bumblebee liked, and Ratchet claimed the Cybertronian cleanser would corrode human-made plumbing over time. At the new temporary base, there had only been a cold, thin trickle from a hose.

Of course, he’d trade back.

Bumblebee offlined his optics, lifted his hands to play with the flow overhead, and guided a rivulet to one door wing, then the other. He’d missed this from Cybertron; he hadn’t realized it, but he’d missed this so much! Mmm, that moment, yes, when the pulse of heat went all the way through the armor and caressed the sensitive protoform - [...]

After this blank-out, something felt off, then wrong, then alarming. Bumblebee rebooted his optics and looked around. Yes, this was still a locked room in the enemy ship, and there were no clear present threats. He tried to relax, but the more pleasure signals his sensory net sent, the more threatened he felt. Bumblebee scanned the room: no spark signatures. He winced, then abruptly turned around, some glitchy routine telling him to check if Megatron was right behind him, if he would watch Bumblebee enjoy himself, or mock him about a shower story from his file, or come close and touch and...

Now what?! There weren’t any shower stories in his file. Megatron wasn’t in the room. Laserbeak might be around - Bumblebee wouldn’t put it past her to hide from a scan - but not the bulky noisy warlord, the very opposite of stealth. Why be afraid of standing here or there, while still a prisoner? If Megatron wanted his captive in the shower for whatever reason (Bumblebee shuddered), there his captive would be, after a sick game, or just shackled to the wall forcibly.

Bumblebee’s spark contracted in fear, but his valve clenched and his spike bumped into his interface panel from the inside. He groaned in disgust. At least, that meant his physical health was back. The scout wanted to dart out of the shower, but he made himself stay and keep in control. He would finish another chore while here, turn the drying vents on, and then step out with dignity. Bumblebee ran the cleanser shivering-cold, felt his charge dissipate, and then got to work.

He activated the strong, narrow-beam scanner that would detect all types of surveillance equipment known to the Autobots. Anything that absorbed data or energy also emitted some. His emotional matrix still glitched with random pulses of fear; he tried to reset it, or redirect the dread to real threats, but failed. At least he was still capable of routine grind: tracing his scanner beam all over the room in meticulously overlapping sweeps.

He located the sixth spy drone and stopped scanning, Megatron’s claim that there were six cameras in the room was confirmed as true. Wait, was that right? The scout clenched his fists in frustration, staring into the plain purple shower wall, willing for an answer to appear, instead of the phrase ‘absence of evidence’ bouncing around his processor without making any - [...]

The scout heard something, whirled around, and saw the warlord’s gray frame. Visual glitches? No, the door was open, this was real - and Bumblebee’s panic flared hot. He jumped out of the shower, slipped in the cleanser, and landed on his aft, barely catching his hands on the floor behind him to break the fall.

Megatron paused by the door, as if taking in all the sights: the scout ridiculously sprawled in a puddle, cleanser beading and dripping off his too-shiny, shivering frame; the abandoned running shower; and the still life with the scraplet and the body wash bottle on the table. If the warlord was surprised, he didn’t show it. This must be nothing to the weirdness of his other subordinates, Bumblebee thought, then quietly cursed at lumping himself with the enemies.

Megatron stepped toward the scout, and Bumblebee pulled his legs under him, ready to scramble away. But the warlord only took two gray detailing cloths from his subspace, where he apparently kept a pile, and dropped them in Bumblebee’s lap.

“Clean up and let’s go,” Megatron ordered, and went to turn off the shower.

Bumblebee used a cloth to dry himself and started to wipe the mess he’d made on the floor with the other cloth. Then he decided he wouldn’t clean the Nemesis after all, and tossed both cloths on the table.

Megatron attached the steel cord he’d used before to his left wrist and stepped up to Bumblebee, the clasp at the other end of the cord in his hand. The scout was quick to lift his right wrist, to reduce the duration Megatron would have to spend pawing at him. It was a small comfort to know the routine was reasonably safe; it tasted bitter to obey.

As much as Bumblebee hated shuttles, the flight presented opportunities. The Nemesis was hardened against electromagnetic waves, so his comm was useless while onboard. What if the shuttle wasn’t hardened? He must have a message ready for the short takeoff window. He began, ‘ _Megatron is lying about me_ ’ - then deleted the glyphs. Megatron had been careful to weave wrong impressions out of half-truths. ‘ _I want to go home_ ’ - no, too whiny. Personal wasn’t important. What was? ‘ _Shockwave is working on tiny ground bridges - see my file for details_ ,’ - no, no, that had come from Starscream, tagged with _#SuspiciouslyBadActing_. He knew better than to pass on unchecked intel. ‘ _Megatron has a plan_ ,’ - well, obviously!

Bumblebee recognized the last long corridor; they were almost at the top deck. He wrote, ‘ _I am alive. I am an Autobot. Tell Raf to stay strong_ ,’ coded it in case the ‘Cons intercepted, and kept it in his buffer. _Which statement would break first?_ he thought bitterly, then realized he forgot to say goodbye to Steve the scraplet, and then - [...]

The deck was flooded with light under the clear dark sky, its stars so numerous the Nemesis had to be far away from major human cities. Bumblebee stumbled as he stepped onto the deck. Memories of what had happened here washed over him in hot dread, but gave way to the scout protocols: there was too much going on.

Vehicons and Seekers carried loads of cargo into a barbed, triangular shuttle, purple of course, its sharp protrusions resembling the Nemesis. Soundwave stood by the shuttle’s ramp, silent and immobile, Laserbeak docked on his chest. His face screen flickered data each time one of the soldiers passed him. Bumblebee zoomed in, recognized lists of supplies and clone designations, and saved a snapshot, but had to turn away when Megatron stepped toward the port broadside.

There, right under a floodlight, stood Starscream. The first thing Bumblebee noticed were blackened welts on his chest and wings: the commander must have received his punishment for the scraplet incident. Then the scout saw that Starscream was greeting the approaching warlord with an incongruous grin. Four Vehicons knelt in the shadows behind him, one closer to the front, all in heavy manacles.

Starscream and the Vehicons? What was that Megatron said on the bridge? “Keep failing me, Commander, and for the first test of Shockwave’s invention we will put a ground bridge in your valve and open its other end in the Vehicon barracks.” Bumblebee returned the commander’s grin. It was hidden by his mask, but Starscream must have seen the amusement in Bumblebee’s optics and sensed it through EM. The moment of triumph at Starscream's indignant pout was short-lived. When Bumblebee laughed with Megatron about that, about forcing others, he was soiled in his captors’ shame, and he had done so yesterday, he - [...]

When the static of a blank-out cleared, Megatron was saying, “...on the table in his quarters, trapped between two energon cubes. Take care of it, Commander.”

Starscream turned to Bumblebee and knit his optic ridges in concern. “Is the scraplet wounded?” he asked.

Bumblebee was so surprised he answered without thinking, ::No, I just caught it. It was recharging when I left.::

“Aww, too much rough metal to chew. The little guy must be overfed and overtired!”

Starscream’s small smile that was neither a smirk nor a grin made him look extremely weird. Bumblebee stared; Megatron next to him stared; even the Vehicon kneeling at the front lifted his head to glance at the air commander, then quickly bowed down.

The scout recognized the clone from their past meeting. That answered the earlier question: Megatron did disapprove of their prank. Or was Bumblebee jumping to conclusions? He added the question to the growing for-later pile. His past fears of the bridge must have been wrong: the Decepticons apparently held their executions (as well as their torture sessions) on this deck instead. _Serves the Vehicons right for mistreating a prisoner_ , Bumblebee thought, then shook his head. ‘Right’ was such a wrong word here.

Were they going to make him watch? Did Megatron think Bumblebee would want to, because of the prank? Did he want to?

Being stared at by Megatron must have reminded Starscream of his duties. “What is your verdict, master?” he inquired with a bow, the very model of subservient politeness.

“Hard labor in the mines for all four. Frontline duty if we run anything risky, so that they may redeem themselves. Eight strokes to ST-3v3, whip or prod, scout’s right,” Megatron declared.

Starscream pulled out an energon whip and an energon prod from his subspace as though he always carried them around. He held them out to Bumblebee, a weapon in each hand. His bow looked identical to the one before, but felt like a taunt.

Bumblebee glanced between the electric weapons, Megatron, Starscream, and the kneeling mechs. ::What?:: he finally buzzed, not wishing to believe the obvious conclusion.

“Our lord grants you the right to choose and administer ST-3v3’s punishment,” Starscream explained. The kneeling mech stirred when the commander called his name, but kept his helm bowed this time.

Bumblebee backed away until the steel cord connecting him to Megatron’s hand pulled taut. ::No, I… No!:: Bumblebee said, disgusted.

“Come on, scout. You can pick the setting and everything,” Starscream offered, as if inviting Bumblebee to his favorite bar for a choice of nice drinks. That grin from before was back.

Bumblebee shook his head and glanced at Megatron, who stood as unperturbable as he had earlier, when Bumblebee had flopped on the floor like a fool. He heard a whimper: Steve the Vehicon lifted his head and his manacled hands and rasped, “Please, scout, plea…” Starscream kicked back without turning to look, catching the kneeling mech on the thigh. Steve fell silent and bowed low.

::What does he want me to do?:: Bumblebee said to Megatron, then cringed, recalling what the warlord wanted in exchange for answers last time.

But Megatron answered for free, “He wants you to claim your right.”

::Why? That’s torture, that’s… That’s wrong!:: Bumblebee looked at Starscream, who had seemed positively gleeful after his own recent whipping, and blurted out the messed-up conclusion, ::Does he like pain?::

Starscream snorted, but raised an optic ridge as if in wonder and turned to peer down at Steve. The clone must have sensed the same flicker of the EM field that Bumblebee had, because he cautiously tilted his head to meet the commander’s gaze.

Megatron said, “He might, but that’s beside the point. The Decepticon rule is that if you don’t claim your right, it will be the energon prod, at the highest setting, with his sentence quadrupled. He knows he may not survive that many shocks.”

::The Decepticon rule? I am not a Decepticon!::

“Do you fancy the Autobots to be any better about torture?” Starscream screeched. “I was just telling Knock Out! How do you think it feels for a flier to be stuck in your Prime’s crumped dark trailer with wings clipped in a stress position? And then Arcee pulled a blaster in my face and threatened to execute me on the spot. The Galactic Council would call that torture, and I agree.”

::That’s different!:: Bumblebee buzzed, with more conviction than he really felt. Arcee just had issues, everybody knew she just had issues, and who was to blame but the Decepticons who had tortured her? She’d said Starscream had provoked her, but why _would_ Bulkhead use that clip on an already-handcuffed prisoner? Or drag Starscream out of the trailer by one heel so his head banged on the stones? That brought to mind some of Wheeljack’s darker stories about the Wreckers, and all the rumors about Jazz...

“Time,” Megatron reminded, then added, as if reading Bumblebee’s thoughts, “When we are on our way, you can ask Soundwave for his file on Autobot atrocities. Choose, now.”

Steve quickly glanced up at Bumblebee, his narrow visor so overbright it was bleached of its red tint, but he didn’t speak again. He lowered his gaze and clenched his hands together, venting hard. Maybe he didn’t dare speak, or had given up, or would not beg an enemy twice.

Bumblebee longed to hold a weapon. He could hurt a Decepticon. Or grant Steve mercy with a low setting. Or maybe turn that prod on Megatron! But no, the ‘Cons would think of that, restrain him somehow. The two choices Megatron gave were all the scout had. Which was less cruel? Or did Bumblebee want to be crueler?

Starscream muttered, “The scout would not choose audios or vocalizer at Tyger Pax, either.”

Megatron growled, but too late: Bumblebee remembered. A tidbit from his training, a simple rule against mindfrag: ‘ _Don’t hurt yourself or other prisoners_.’ Steve was a prisoner.

Bumblebee clenched his fists and turned away, looking off the edge of the deck into the endless starry night. What quaint little customs did the Decepticons have for those who refused that ‘right’? He’d find out soon.

Megatron tugged on the cord connecting them, sharper than usual, and growled, “Let’s go.”

Steve stammered, “But... Lord Megatron?..” He sounded terrified, and no wonder, but also surprised. “Please, what about…”

“Silence!” Megatron said, his order instantly obeyed. His optics flashed purple, but Bumblebee thought it could be the trick of the light. “Survive, and you will have more chances to prove yourself. As do all my Decepticons.”

Bumblebee followed the warlord to the shuttle’s loading ramp, not looking back when he heard hard vents turn into sobs. _At least Megatron didn’t make it awkward about Steve the scraplet; anyway, they have quite enough clones left_ , Bumblebee thought, then tried to delete the whole sparkless subroutine producing such thoughts. The shuttle was indeed stuffed full of clones. They sat on the floor in tight rows, Vehicons to the left, Seekers to the right, eerily quiet. The warlord led Bumblebee through a straight and narrow path left open in the middle, but stopped before they could enter the pilot’s cabin.

“You can ride here with the troops or in the cabin with myself and Soundwave,” Megatron said, then added a goad to the flimsy bait of choice, “I’ll shackle you to something in any case. Shuttles are delicate, and you’ve been quite _frisky_ with Knock Out.”

Bumblebee winced at this turn of phrase and heard several clones stir and titter, all the red visors on one side and red optics on the other intently focused on him. He stepped on the urge to hide his face in his hands, and made himself look around the shuttle some more, saving the up-close recording of the enemy troops. He turned slowly, as if at his leisure, and checked out the cabin. After the overfull, windowless cargo hold, it felt roomy and open. The consoles for manual control were in front of two large pilot seats. Only two.

::Let me guess. I’ll have to sit on your lap if I choose the cabin,:: Bumblebee blurted, heard murmurs and gasps from the clones, and wished, as he had many times before, that the reality came with the ‘undo’ commands like his media-authoring subroutines.

“It is very _touching_ you should suggest that, scout,” Megatron said, taking full advantage of Bumblebee’s slip - with a grin that invited his soldiers to snicker, whistle, and whisper to one another, albeit not too loudly or for too long. “Not this time. Safety first.”

Megatron must have sent a signal, because a spare seat transformed up from the floor, between the two already in the cabin. It looked as comfortable as the other two - for a mech Megatron’s size.

But this wasn’t about comfort. After the crazy night of insubordinate Decepticons, being tied to a chair between Megatron and Soundwave seemed safer. Bumblebee boggled at himself for using _Megatron_ , _Soundwave_ , and _safe_ all in one sentence, tagged the choice that wasn’t with _#Mindfrag_DecodeLater_ , and said, ::Cabin:: - remembering, just in time, not to add _please_.

Megatron pointed at the chair in the middle. He waited for Bumblebee to sit, gestured to make him scoot all the way back, and pushed buttons at the side of the chair’s right arm for its straps to engage across his chest. Bumblebee’s door wings flattened between his frame and the chair’s back. The wounded one began to ache; the other promised to join in soon. Megatron took Bumblebee’s unresisting hands and magnetized the shackles over the chair’s arms, left the steel cord dangling off Bumblebee’s wrist, and walked away.

‘But, Megatron!’ the scout wanted to shout in his betrayed surprise, as Steve had earlier. The warlord’s heavy steps receded. In a few moments, the noise level in the back of the shuttle picked up, so Megatron must have walked all the way out. Bumblebee’s arms were spread so wide that he had no slack to look behind the chair’s back. He pulled his knees up for some protection, then leaned them aside to look less nervous. His back was crawling, his trapped door wings twitching against the chair; if only he could see! He dialed his audios up, but there were no approaching footsteps. All he could hear were the clones, talking - about him.

\- What was that about the lap?

\- Ha, you know what!

\- Eww, with an Autobot...

\- They shined him up all pretty and slag.

\- Don’t you wish you had that wax?

\- I know who’d trade you some for work, comm me.

\- How come the Autobot buzzes like Laserbeak?

\- Maybe he’s a symbiont.

\- D’ya figure Soundwave will reprogram him to be his?

\- Who’s his carrier now? Optimus?

\- Optimus can’t be a carrier, he’s a Prime!

“Hey, scout?” a loud voice called over the hubbub, interrupting Bumblebee’s runaway imaginings of his life-to-be as Soundwave’s symbiont.

The voice was distorted by a mask: a Vehicon. If Bumblebee didn’t answer, would the clones give up, or come and try to make him talk? Or, or make him do other things, and if they did, should he comm Megatron, and Primus below, was that his charge rising, he would never again laugh at Starscream, and did Megatron leave him helpless like this, knowing the clones wouldn’t try anything, or knowing they would, and was this his punishment for refusing to choose about Steve, or a planned part in Megatron’s sick ‘experiment’, and - [...]

Something bad must have happened, because Bumblebee was panting and trembling, but what, he didn’t know, this blank-out having erased a chunk of his working memory. His charge was up; he silently berated himself for getting excited around clones as if he were Starscream, then for wishing Megatron was back. A voice spoke loudly. It came from under a mask, so the speaker must be a Vehicon. “Hey scout, I hope they slag you soon, okay? You shot two of my squad mates.”

Another voice, also a Vehicon, retorted, “That’s just war. Your squad was shooting at the fragger. Why didn’t you slag him yourself, Toivo? Missed?”

“The fragger’s fast, that’s why!” the first Vehicon replied.

Bumblebee saved his voice signature under T0-1v0. At least his processor could still handle simple decoding.

Toivo continued, “Fast and agile, okay? Must be good in berth.” Then, louder, “Are you good in berth, Autobot? Is that why they haven’t slagged you yet?”

Several mechs laughed. Bumblebee lowered his head. He’d never thought about himself that way; he would not answer the question - the taunt; and he didn’t know, he didn’t even know.

“My trine mate was there when Lord Megatron made the scout overload on the deck,” a different voice said, unhindered by a mask: a Seeker.

That tidbit led the clones’ chat truly down into the gutter, the Seekers teasing the Vehicons with the recording they had but wouldn’t share. Sick; not surprising. Bumblebee realized that first Seeker had sounded sad rather than mocking. Trine bonds meant shared sensations; Bumblebee wondered how the Seeker had felt if his mate was the one Megatron had shot through the spark, back then on the deck.

Maybe to get one up on the Seekers, a Vehicon loudly supplied, “Lord Megatron goes to the Autobot’s quarters all the time. My squad guarded the corridors there.”

“Wow, does he?” Toivo asked, then called out even louder, “Hey, scout, is Lord Megatron good in berth?”

Bumblebee heard several voices yell, “Shut up!” to the sound of a scuffle and clanging metal. The corridor guard hissed, “They arrested the other squad this night over somesuch stupid slag!” and the Seeker from before cut in, “Want them to shoot you too, like Fantail?”

Could Bumblebee seize the moment for some sedition? He could make the soldiers fear and doubt ‘ _them_ ’, their oppressive officers, even more. Rally the clones for the cause of freedom, the right of all sentient beings. That, or seduction? Tempt them with his legendary sexual prowess to run away together. But he found no clever words; what little processing power he had left cycled around Toivo’s last question.

“Scout?” Toivo called hesitantly; there were several clangs right away, and he cried, “Stop that! I am not asking about you-know-who, okay? Hey, scout? Have they told you when the war will be over?”

The shuttle grew quiet. Bumblebee imagined the two faction leaders at one of their apparently regular talks, Optimus saying in his even baritone, “Shall we end the war next Tuesday afternoon, then?” and Megatron drawling, “Gone native, Prime? Convert that into proper Cybertronian cycles and ask me once more!”

If they - ‘ _they_ ’ - made such a decision, would Megatron tell Bumblebee, or would that info count as tactical? He shook his head to dislodge the silly thoughts; yet the clones stayed quiet, waiting. Hoping? ::They haven’t told me yet,:: Bumblebee buzzed, as loudly as his vocalizer went, and heard the whoosh of many ex-vents at once. ::When they do, I’ll tell you right away, Toivo, okay?::

Bumblebee immediately wondered how he would manage that. The ‘Cons began talking all at once, but then fell silent. The scout heard the familiar heavy footsteps, and sagged in relief.

Megatron’s gray bulk entered Bumblebee’s field of vision on the left, and the scout jerked in surprise when Soundwave’s purple-lit lithe frame also appeared, on the right. The mech moved as silently as a hologram! Soundwave’s faceplate was now carefully blank, biolights dim. Laserbeak was gone from her dock. The scout heard a hum: a door closing. The two ‘Cons sat down, buckled up, and adjusted their chairs for comfort on the long journey: straighter back for Megatron, recessed seat for Soundwave’s reverse-joint legs, and smaller changes heard but not seen. Bumblebee stirred, trying to work out cricks in his aching shoulders and door wings.

“Well done with the soldiers, scout,” Megatron said as he plugged a data cable into the shuttle’s port.

Soundwave linked up as well, with a thick striped tentacle-cable. Up to now, Bumblebee had only seen those in battle, moving too fast to discern details, and in still images from battle analysis. The linked-up plug at the tip was surrounded by small flexing feelers and four sharp-ended graspers, each adorned with red biolights that - [...]

‘Well done’ - Megatron must have heard; the shuttle, like the Nemesis, must be wired for surveillance. Maybe the warlord wasn’t as unperturbable as he let on, just oft-forewarned. Bumblebee said nothing in response, wondering what he’d done wrong. It must be wrong if Megatron approved. He kept staring, mesmerized, at the dimming and brightening purple biolights that ran along Soundwave’s tentacle. Bumblebee tried to find a pattern to their dance, idly wondered if the appendage felt the same to the touch as other mechs’ cables, then remembered he was going to tag something about Megatron, but it was gone from his working memory.

Megatron’s and Soundwave’s hands went to the consoles in front of them, and Bumblebee felt the shuttle vibrate and hum, engines now idling. He was still digging through his memory banks when something moved: a second tentacle pulled out of Soundwave’s side and landed on Bumblebee’s right wrist. He cried out and tried to pull away, then braced himself. Wrist port? The scout checked that it was locked, prepared for the pain of broken locks, and put his active anti-hack protocols on standby. He had no hope of winning against a sustained attack, not when his processor was that glitchy and his enemies controlled his frame, but at each line of his defenses there were reply-viruses, circuit-frying feedback routines, and other nasty surprises for the intruding analyst.

Who wasn’t messing with Bumblebee’s port at all.

Soundwave’s right hand kept working on the shuttle console, but his left hand pulled up the end of the steel cord dangling from Bumblebee’s shackle, and attached it to the chair’s arm, while the little red-tipped feelers on the tentacle touched the shackle’s controls, making it demagnetize from the chair. Bumblebee yanked his hand away, and pushed himself to his left. The tentacle tapped on the controls on his chair’s arm, as if pointing them out, then withdrew and disappeared.

It had felt different from conventional cables; the tentacle was soft, warm, and pliable, rather like an unlubricated spike, Bumblebee thought - then winced and rubbed his arm on the seat to get rid of the phantom sensation. He remembered a crude cartoon Bulkhead had scratched on a wall of a ‘Con energon mine while they waited in ambush, with Soundwave’s tentacle up Megatron’s valve.

Bumblebee’s wires tingled with charge, his valve clenched, and his frame grew heavier. What? Oh, that last one wasn’t his friend-foe identity routines glitching around interface. The shuttle’s antigrav must have switched on, set to Cybertronian levels. The shuttle’s engine revved, and the windows lit up with the burning air of their takeoff.

Bumblebee swallowed, looked away, and tried his chair controls to distract himself from the fact they were hurtling into the stratosphere in a flimsy nonsentient box. He made the seat softer, reclined the top to make room, and stretched his door wings. He leaned on the chair’s left arm, arranged his crossed legs across the seat’s diagonal... And remembered about his message to the Autobots.

They were out of the atmosphere. The shuttle’s vibrations ceased, and the window was now full of unblinking stars. They could still be within range of an Autobot or US military satellite. Bumblebee boosted his comm unit as much as he could and sent - once, twice, three times, willing his signal to reach his friends, willing the ‘Cons not to be listening on that frequency.

The stars began turning. Bumblebee assumed it was a standard maneuver, using Earth’s gravity to bank toward a course perpendicular to the plane of the planets. That was the fastest route from the solar system’s gravity lines to where it was safe to engage the hyperdrive. For a moment, Bumblebee saw Earth in the corner of the window, already tiny and fading fast. The dull ache of his spark grew into unbearable yearning. Maybe he could make the shuttle explode, or drive it into the Sun; he looked around for tools or weapons, but of course there were none, and his hands were still tied.

Bumblebee blanked out again, then dismissed the urgent-blue HUD messages. He might offline soon anyway, and not in any heroic sacrifice taking the enemy leaders and soldiers with him. What a dumb way to die! With the ‘Cons occupied by flying, the clones behind the closed door, and the shuttle having proved itself sturdy enough to survive the takeoff, Bumblebee’s automatic measures of external danger dipped through several thresholds. Would that allow him to try and recharge? He needed a doctor and a long stretch of quiet, safe time to sort out his glitches. He had to try.

“Shall we swing by Saturn, scout?” Megatron asked, as if to confirm that quiet time wasn’t coming.

::What? Why?::

“You have a Saturn story in your file. I could even turn the gravity off.”

::No!:: Bumblebee buzzed urgently, glared at the warlord, and pointed an accusing finger. He wished it were a gun. ::I don’t want anything to do with those stories anymore! I don’t want them read to me, I don’t want to talk about them, I _definitely_ don’t want to play-act any!::

There, Jazz, how’s that for showing them some fear? Bumblebee didn’t really expect that to work; what he expected was the ‘Cons spending all the six joors of the boring flight reading the stories to him, if not enacting them, and starting from Saturn anyway, and there… Bumblebee forced his thoughts away from the familiar Saturn scenarios. Meanwhile, the shuttle kept flying. In less than a klik, the engine switched to a lower hum and the windows filled with the gray nothing of hyperdrive.

Whew. Bumblebee sent silent thanks to his long-gone trainer, missing in action, presumed dead.

Soundwave took his hands away from the controls and let them dangle to the floor. Megatron put his hands behind his head, grinning lazily . “No, Soundwave,” he said, “the scout will need his comm unit for the games.”

The games. If he didn’t crash, he had that to look forward to. Would the ‘Cons make him fight like a gladiator, or hunt him like a turbofox? Wait. ::What was that about my comm unit?::

“You want to question me, scout?” Megatron said, and Bumblebee recognized a start to another relatively safe, absolutely sick routine of this confusing captivity. “That privilege has a price. Bah, stop cringing, the price is very reasonable. Just call me by one of my proper titles when you ask a question. I am calling you by your title, ‘scout’. Return the courtesy. My lord, my liege, lord Megatron, or master - your choice.”

Just words; a formal title. Nothing physical, nothing personal even. No way was Bumblebee calling Megatron ‘my’ anything, and ‘master’ was out of the question, but - ‘lord Megatron’ did seem reasonable, a statement of fact. The mech was the Decepticon warlord, after all.

He could collect intel, learn more of his fate. Just say ‘Lord Megatron’ and repeat that question. But his vocalizer resisted, his fuel tank churned, and he didn’t even know why - had no hope of figuring it out, either, not in his current state. Bumblebee ran a deep ventilation, turned away and focused on Soundwave’s pretty biolights, then finally beeped, too quietly, ::Lord…:: He had to reset his vocalizer. ::Lord Megatron, what was that about my comm unit?::

Bumblebee waited for triumph or teasing in Megatron’s tone, but it was as casual and relaxed as his pose and grin. “Soundwave informed me you have sent several signals on one of the Autobot frequencies he monitors. He suggested we disable your comm unit, but I disagreed. In any case, this shuttle is as hardened against EM as the Nemesis.”

His little message didn’t go through! Without much success, Bumblebee tried to reason himself out of misery. He wouldn’t have known if the Autobots received the comm anyway, and they wouldn’t have been able to reply. They probably knew he was alive, and either believed he stayed an Autobot, or wouldn’t have trusted his words. Somebody would take good care of Raf…

Megatron's voice startled Bumblebee out of his reverie. “Any more questions, scout?”

Yes. No, who cares? Maybe. ::What are the games?:: Bumblebee asked, then remembered the price, and added, ::Lord Megatron.::

“They are a very old tradition. From long before the war, before the so-called ‘Golden Age’ corrupted everything,” Megatron spat out the name as a bitter curse, but then his voice turned dreamy. “The legend says that before Unicron and Primus went to war, chaos and life were in peaceful balance. The old games were called Festival of the Two to honor the Divine Binary. They were open to all: Cybertronians, alien mechs, even organic aliens. You had to be smart and clever and _agile_ to win.” Bumblebee turned to glare at Megatron, who grinned in response, and continued, more business-like. “The winners received access to funds, resources, and advisors to implement any large-scale commercial or social project of their choice. Oh, and the winner picked the project’s co-leader. It was not in the rules, but Cybertronian winners traditionally used that choice of co-leader to announce conjux endura or amica endura intentions.”

The warlord paused, and Bumblebee imagined Old Cybertron, as he had seen it in a few surviving recordings: buildings of odd architectural styles, among them an open coliseum, noisy with a crowd of mechs in equally odd frames, mixed with exotic organics. “The winner is… Megatronus!” the announcer said, and the crowd went wild.

Bumblebee’s imagination kept supplying details. Beside the announcer, a gray mech raised his fist in a victory salute. He looked exhausted. His dented and scratched armor lacked sharp protrusions, his fingertips were blunt, and there was no fusion cannon on his right arm. Bumblebee watched from a nearby seat, because they already had an arrangement. “Thank you for this opportunity,” the mech said, his powerful low voice easily carrying over the crowd. “For my project, I want to research non-invasive cyberforming of planets with existing life. For my co-leader, and my proposed conjux endura, I choose…” The gray mech made a dramatic pause in his speech, got down on one knee, focused the intense gaze of his red optics on Bumblebee, lifted a hand toward him in a welcoming gesture, and - [...]

A sharp-clawed hand waved back and forth in front of Bumblebee’s optics. He batted it away automatically, then jerked his own hand back, recoiling from that absent-minded, too-familiar touch.

“As I was asking, do you want to know the details of our game redesign, scout?” Megatron said, voice emphatically patient, his hand raised in an inviting gesture strangely resembling Bumblebee’s waking worry-dream.

::Yes,:: Bumblebee replied, and when Megatron didn’t start speaking, added, ::Lord Megatron.:: An annoying thing to remember.

“We play in squads, not individually. The old games were dangerous enough to maim or kill the contestants, and we took measures against that. The prizes are more modest, because there are no corporate sponsors yet. We cannot open the games to aliens, but at least both Cybertronian factions will be represented. It is a start!”

Bumblebee looked at Megatron in morbid fascination. The warlord sounded as if he believed his own propaganda. As if dragging a shackled prisoner along could be a proper start for anything but a mockery of peace and balance! If he refused all cooperation from now on, would Megatron get an idea or two about free will into his thick bucket-head?

Yet, peace. The stuff of worry-dreams. Bumblebee had never experienced peace. Would mechs like Megatron, or Soundwave here, or Toivo in the back of the shuttle, get it about freedom, if there was peace?

Were peace wishes for the ‘Cons as corrupted as dreaming about Starscream chained to the shuttle? Bumblebee shouldn’t mess with the big picture until a good defrag - which sounded more like, ‘ _Till all are one_ ’. For now, focus on practical matters. Ask simple questions. Remember to say the thing. ::Lord Megatron, what will I do during the games?:: he asked.

“You will lead a squad of clones. I think I will put T0-1v0 in your squad,” Megatron supplied. “Soundwave has the file for players with game rules. Soundwave?”

At that, the second tentacle appeared and hovered over the right arm of Bumblebee’s chair, apparently waiting for access to his wrist port this time. Did he have to touch _that_? Again? Let it inside his port, inside _him_? There was an answer to the question he asked, information about something he needed to know. Also, there was Soundwave’s tool for hacking and, and for interface. The little red-tipped feelers surrounding the plug that transformed out of the tentacle’s end made slow minute movements; Bumblebee imagined they would feel nice and tender around a data port. Would have felt nice, if the other end of that tentacle wasn’t attached to Soundwave the spook, Decepticon Third in Command.

The ‘Cons could hack a prisoner any time, Bumblebee reminded himself, and Megatron echoed: “Do not be concerned, scout. We do not plan to hack you today” - a promise and a threat.

Bumblebee made as ready as he could with his anti-hacking measures, and unlocked his wrist port. He put his arm down under the tentacle, and braced himself for the nasty unexpected. Laserbeak had said, ‘My master is unhappy because you are here.’ Would Soundwave take this chance to express his feelings in painful ways? But the plug felt mundane going in, except warmer than other mechs’ cables. The scout lowered his firewall for a quarantined partition, accepted the file transfer, and - that was that, the tentacle disappeared. The feelers and the graspers never even touched his arm.

“Study the rules, scout, while Soundwave and I talk, and then you can recharge,” Megatron ordered.

Bumblebee thought Soundwave never talked; hadn’t he taken an oath or something? Was the scout about to hear what no mech had heard since before the war? Soundwave unplugged from the shuttle, apparently satisfied that Megatron and the autopilot could handle it from there, and plugged that tentacle into Megatron’s left wrist instead. The warlord dimmed his optics, his right hand casually stroking and then resting on the tentacle lying across his lap. Soundwave’s frame was as immobile as a statue, his faceplate blank, only biolights on the tentacle blinking with data transfers. The graspers at the end of the tentacle gently held onto Megatron’s arm, and the little feelers tapped and slid around, to music unheard but seen in the pulse of their red-lit tips.

Bumblebee trembled, and hoped the ‘Cons wouldn’t notice (or at least comment on) what his EM field was doing. He checked the file for malware (clean), opened it, and went about tagging the plain text in case he decided to play in the games.

It was still his decision, despite what Lord Megatron - Megatron, slaggit - [...]

Bumblebee blanked out, lost all progress, and ran a diagnostic. Bad. It would still be his decision about the games, even if Lord Megatron - no, stop that, Megatron - took his prisoner’s cooperation for granted. But Bumblebee’s glitches made that decision moot: the estimated time to a deep crash was under a joor.

Then what? Would the ‘Cons just throw his stasis-locked frame out, to float in space until he starved? No, that would be a waste (also, too horrible to imagine). They might use him for parts. Most likely, though, they would try to salvage one of the few remaining Cybertronians: hack his processor, force a defrag through the link, and then force a reboot. That was a risky procedure even if a medic performed it from full backups, with good knowledge of the system, let alone a hostile hacker working blind. Maybe the clones weren’t wrong and he would end up as Soundwave’s symbiont? No, that’s not how it would work; a mindless drone.

Bumblebee made a hopeless frantic attempt to initiate recharge. The protocol ran his regular file, Megatron’s gentle hand on his neck; the scout clasped his own over the spot protectively. With the warlord in the next chair, the little thrill of the dream dialed itself all the way up to high-grade nightmare levels. The usual buzz of excitement did raise his charge. Great. Now he felt more distracted, more afraid, more tired, and less sleepy.

The scout made a copy of the recharge protocol, and tried to disconnect it from the worry-dream file line by line. As a decent hacker, he knew the dismal odds. This was a live change, without an external processor to help, of a tangled, messy code that had been growing wild for many vorns, like an organic forest. He had to retrace progress every couple of kliks because of blank-outs. In less than a breem, he got lost in a quagmire of dependencies. The resulting critical error persisted through all his muddled attempts to fix it. He cursed quietly, and Megatron asked, “What’s that, Bumblebee?”

Why not? They will find out soon enough. ::My recharge protocols are glitching.::

“Glitching, how?” Megatron asked with a frown. “Do you need help? We could help.”

That was too precious. ::Sure, you can help. Maybe some high-grade for my nightcap?:: Megatron nodded and reached for a side panel that opened into a storage bin, but Bumblebee had just begun. ::Then you can help me get comfortable and untie me from this chair. In fact, just remove these itchy shackles - that would help a whole lot. And then, drop me off at the nearest neutral planet with a mech hospital, because I am going to have a system-wide crash half a joor from now.::

Megatron growled, almost crushing the force field of a portable one-shot fuel cube, tiny in his hand. “Knock Out! He should have warned me!”

Bumblebee ignored it, lest he blank out and forget what he was going to say. ::Have the Neutrals contact Ratchet for my backup. In fact, give them shanix so they can fly Ratchet in, because he has access codes. Without them, medics would trigger my defenses, so they might as well smelt me right away.:: That wasn’t entirely true; Ratchet had never agreed to install really nasty spec ops failsafes, but the ‘Cons might buy it.

“I was not aware of your health problems, scout,” Megatron said.

Was it pity behind the disdain in his voice? Even enemies thought Bumblebee a poor scout! Something snapped, and his spark flared, morose shame igniting into white-hot anger. He moved to lunge at Megatron, to tear cables and gouge optics with bare hands, then cried out when his left shackle bent his plating, holding him back without any give. ::What would you do if you knew - torture me better?:: Bumblebee whirred through static.

Megatron said nothing, just stared, as he had before at the scraplet-loving Starscream. Stared, almost frozen; Bumblebee recognized the not-all-here look of a mech with a powerful, specialized core processor juggling too many conscious data operations. The outburst probably made Megatron retag multiple files with new data on a taunt that got under Bumblebee’s plating so well, and what it meant about the scout’s vulnerabilities.

But that little freeze meant something about Megatron’s vulnerabilities, too. The scout applied tags in turn, and cycled his vents to regain control. Enemy-provoked, premature, hopeless attacks never won wars. He beeped, almost evenly, ::Where were we? Right, the Neutrals. Not that the Neutrals would get involved between the Autobots and the Decepticons during the war. That leads to _health problems_ , of the terminal kind. So, while you are at it helping me, just stop that stupid war! Then all of us will recharge so much better. Can you arrange for that, _Lord_ Megatron?::

Bumblebee cycled his vents again. He expected Megatron to laugh in his face, to taunt him more, but the warlord nodded and said gravely, “I am working on it.” Then opened the cube and handed Bumblebee his high-grade, which he took with his less-tied right hand, and added, “Soundwave.”

Soundwave what? Megatron must have said the rest through their interface with the analyst. Bumblebee turned to look. The second tentacle appeared. Slowly, as if reluctantly, it moved his way, once more hovering over his chair’s right arm. ::Soundwave what?:: Bumblebee repeated out loud, trying not to panic.

“Soundwave has excellent data sorting protocols. If you dual process with him, he will help you fall into recharge and perform a very efficient defrag,” Megatron explained, not even waiting for his title. Maybe the one from Bumblebee’s rant had paid for the next question. “Live, scout. Live and help us end the war.”

::But that’s deep access!:: Bumblebee beeped indignantly.

He would save the deceptive claims about ending the war for later, if there was going to be any ‘later’. Returning to the Allspark would be tempting, but not this way: his glitched, stasis-locked frame as a Decepticon plaything! But the alternative: deep access. Deep access was as different from a file upload as the tiny ground-bridge scenario, with Megatron’s spike deep in Bumblebee’s throat and valve, was from him sitting on a cloth over Megatron’s knee.

Bumblebee’s fans turned on, and he pulled his knees up to his chest and his EM field tighter, afraid that the ‘Cons would sense his charge, afraid - [...]

Why was he excited and curled up, with high-grade in hand? Did Soundwave do anything with that tentacle hovering near?! Bumblebee scrambled through his working memory, made of holes and dread. Oh. Megatron had offered ‘help’ and it didn’t look like the ‘Cons would force him. Maybe they believed him about his suicidal defenses. One of those sick choices, then. Think!

The scout could lock long-term memory banks and purge his buffers. But with deep interface via a hardline, any hacking would be easier. Besides, there would be no hiding the glitches in his emotional matrix, nor hungers of his frame. If they were linked now, Soundwave would feel Bumblebee was charged. Megatron would know, being linked to Soundwave. Pit, even the shuttle would know through the warlord’s cable, though the drone wouldn’t care.

Was that level of data exchange sex? If their kind hadn’t resolved that philosophical question since the times of the Divine Binary, the scout wouldn’t figure it out in the kliks he had left.

The tentacle to Bumblebee’s right waved for attention, and Soundwave’s faceplate lit up with an image: a network diagram. If links were red, and firewalls were blue… Bumblebee decoded Soundwave’s offer: it would keep their contact to the minimum, just as the analyst had kept his feelers in the air, away from Bumblebee’s arm. It wouldn’t be like the time Megatron had fully invaded every part of Bumblebee’s processor, including that damned worry-dream file.

Unless Soundwave lied. He could simply hack the linked mech in recharge, and the scout wouldn’t know until he woke up, if ever. But if Bumblebee refused, he’d be hacked in stasis lock and was unlikely to come out of it as himself. This choice, like all Megatron’s offers so far, was no choice at all.

At least Bumblebee’s charge had dissipated, for now. He locked his memory banks, rolled down his firewalls, and pulled up a bullet trajectory computation from a scouting routine to fill his buffer with number noise. He threw back his high-grade in one gulp, dispersed the cube, and opened his wrist data port. Jet high-grade burned his intake, but he was too keyed up to feel any buzz.

 _Here goes nothing_.

The handshaking protocol felt _warm_ \- just like the plug itself, just like the brush of the tentacle had earlier. Bumblebee offlined his optics and followed Soundwave’s routines now worming through his processor. There were many at once, checking the tags, tapping partitions, starting what the scout recognized as a recharge protocol. He had to jump from one routine to the next, checking one at a time (no malicious intrusions so far), while Soundwave ran dozens, in an amazing feat of - [...]

Soundwave’s protocol pinged for the next level of access needed to initiate recharge. Bumblebee checked the interface one more time, felt Soundwave’s dim presence, its warmth still a surprise, its emotional field teeking _sad-ironic-ready_. There was an even dimmer, far away presence he sensed but couldn’t teek at this depth - Megatron, waiting, watching. The scout probed wider, felt someone else beyond Soundwave, a distant bright spark that must be Laserbeak, and something else beyond Megatron, looming and dark, surely not the shuttle, but - [...]

Were the blank-outs getting more frequent, was he - [...]

Bumblebee’s panic was answered by a high-priority ping requesting keys for deeper access, and Megatron’s words through the interface: “Soundwave, is he crashing?”

In the truth of directly shared surface emotions, Bumblebee felt no pity or disdain from Megatron; the warlord was _frustrated-curious-concerned_. How strange, but the scout ran out of time to wonder. He gave Soundwave the keys - [...]

Bumblebee was falling, the sharp thrill dampened by being held, by being wrapped in warmth and soft living metal, by what his remaining consciousness read as an alien routine taking over his sensory input, his emotional matrix, and the imagery his processor was making of it all. The routine simply erased the static of another blank-out as it barely began. In the transitory not-dream, not-awake state, the two presences sharing his mentalscape had no designations, faces, or factions. The one made of warmth projected a gentle complex rhythm. Where the rhythm resonated, processes grew dim and calm.

The scout was aware that his senses, feelings, and thoughts bounced around, the glitches making the data-seeking, attention-scattering tricks of his trade sabotage his recharge. He was faster than the warm presence, but it was everywhere at once. A few at a time, it caught each runaway image of chains or scraplets, each swelling emotion of shame or longing, each sensor’s random input of heat or touch. The invading rhythm caught these data threads in a resonance, tied them down, subdued and dampened them.

It worked, Bumblebee’s processes falling deeper into the state of not-awake; but those still mobile bounced far through the interface - and ran into the other presence. It teeked like incandescent fusion plasma contained in a force field. Its heat made the scout’s charge skyrocket. He half-awakened from that, and was aware that his engine revved up, his spark span faster, and his trembling wings rattled against the chair.

The warm presence recoiled from his arousal, and its complex rhythm faltered. Parts of Bumblebee’s processor broke free, and right away, the snow-crash static returned. Dutifully, the warm presence came back to erase it. The presence renewed the resonant rhythm that kept catching the scout’s processes, but the dream changed. Now the warm presence was passing some sensory threads through to the third member of the interface, to hold and to heat up. Bumblebee’s charge was growing, this time slowly, without breaking the rhythm.

His thoughts were disappearing - deep defragmentation, or deep crash? The wave of fear almost woke him up again; but together, the warm and fiery presences held him down, held the rhythm of the dream, made his fear dampen and his charge amplify, the mix of the two now in harmony with his native recharge routine. He dimly heard a familiar voice saying-sending via the interface, “I do want Ratchet to check on this mess.”

Ratchet - mess - what? Before the scout could process it, the thought was gone, and he was falling, all of him finally caught in synch with the complex rhythm, all of him tingling and heating up and - [...]

Bumblebee’s last sliver of consciousness tagged this blank-out as different, as an overload, and caught words in an unfamiliar reverberating voice, “Megatron’s bet: not won. Direct threat: present” - and a pulse of reluctant agreement. Before the words could be erased, Bumblebee caught them, pushed them through his firewalls into a random file in his long-term memory, and then lost his grip on the universe.

He fell into deep recharge, free of worries or dreams.


	11. Virtual Vacations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee takes a nice break to linger in stories from his past, reimagined-past, and fairy-tale-future (which involves Megatron’s absolutely glorious ::censored::). This time around, the scout’s scenarios don’t make him glitchy, afraid, or vulnerable to Megatron’s manipulations. Bring it on, Decepticon! But spec ops mechs should never say, ‘ _Bring it on_ ’...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee, Bumblebee’s past-self, Jazz, Soundwave, Megatron, Toivo the Vehicon.
> 
> Warnings: Torture, Non-Con, Amazing Transforming Interface Equipment, A Scraplet Where It Most Definitely Should Not Be.

_A fourth wall break inside a fourth wall break? That’s like… sixteen walls!_  
_Deadpool_

* * *

The scout’s sensory net began to boot up in low-res, optics dim, EM muted. Just a klik more in recharge? Let Megatron and his army wait in the harsh world, while the scout stayed half-asleep, his vivid memories streaming like a dream.

> The first cycle of Bumblebee’s functioning began with gentle tests of the new frame, processor, and spark. He had no consciousness at the time. Yet he remembered, because the Autobot technician helping him into the world gave him a souvenir data package. ‘ _My first-ever boot sequence_ ’ -  the data was gift-wrapped in neat tags. Once unpackaged, it smoothly integrated into his memory banks, adding rich metrics to his joy of a strong new body in an awesome universe.
> 
> “Welcome to sentience, Bumblebee!” the technician said with a shy smile.
> 
> Later, Bumblebee would learn of aliens who entered the world with very little knowledge. How would that feel? What if he woke up not knowing what it meant to smile, his own name, or the Neocybex everybody spoke? Without a memory bank entry for ‘Iacon manufactory’, would he be alarmed rather than marvel at the blinking monitors and the loud hum of frame-building equipment? A human friend named June, the Earth version of this technician, would later tell him that crying was the first thing many new humans did in the world.
> 
> Bumblebee knew what was what. He smiled back at the technician, and recognized his tone as solemn, and his EM teek as _solemn-sad-exhausted_ when the mech continued, “Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. On behalf of the Autobots, I invite you to join our faction. You are also free to remain Neutral.”
> 
> Bumblebee chose freedom, compassion, and glory; an informed choice, he thought. His memory banks supplied enough history of the Autobots, and his processor worked out the implications.
> 
> Later, he would learn how Decepticons had onlined before the Autobots restricted their access to the Allspark in response to atrocities. New frames pre-made with their faction insignia, and different starter data packages, and a different choice. In worry-dreams, he’d imagine waking up a ‘Con. How would ‘Army or smelter?’ feel as the first choice in life?
> 
> The technician congratulated Bumblebee on joining the Autobots, shared a drink, talked. The technician’s exhaustion was from the night guarding an outpost that, sadly, wasn’t far from his house in the suburbs of Iacon.
> 
> War being that near to the capital, the new recruits trained fast. A kilocycle in basic, and then Bumblebee was guided into the spec ops program. He kept up at first, then trouble started.
> 
> On the fifth dawn of his training, Bumblebee rebooted under field protocols as instructed, optics dimmed, EM muted, haptic sensors detecting itchy warm alien touches on his ankles and wrists - he recoiled, or tried to, couldn’t move, and tugged on his limbs in earnest before he could send an override. Hearing the familiar rising hum, he turned his head to face the muzzle of a heated blaster and a crooked smile under a red visor. Scrap!
> 
> “Bang, you’re dead,” the trainer said, and added, his smile fading, “Yet again.” He sighed, holstered the blaster, took off Bumblebee’s restraints, and then the red visor he wore over his Autobot-blue optics.
> 
> It took Bumblebee two kilocycles to master that exercise, and then he totally lost it, screaming and thrashing, when he rebooted tied up in an unfamiliar room full of sharp, shiny, scary-looking slag. Might as well have cried like a new human, his future-self would say. Bumblebee was deathly embarrassed when his trainer called in Jazz. Way to be introduced to your hero, the commander of your future division!
> 
> Waiting at parade-attention in a small office, Bumblebee kept imagining more and more elaborate scenarios of what spec ops did to recruits who badly failed interrogation training. The head of spec ops had a reputation. _Bring it on_ , Bumblebee had thought, his imagined-self picking the handcuffs with a clever hack, shooting three Decepticon guards with their own weapons, blowing up the enemy base, and impressing the Pit out of trainers by the highest simulator score in the history of… “At ease, recruit,” a voice said right next to him.
> 
> Bumblebee jumped, then stood at parade-attention again, then at parade-rest. That was impressive all right - an epic fail in situation awareness! How could one move so quietly?
> 
> Jazz laughed, one hand casually on his black hip that drew optics by the contrast to his white race-car frame. Jazz stood no taller than Bumblebee, his smile and EM field so warm that the recruit instantly believed his next words, “Relax, my mech! Take a seat.” Bumblebee did. “I’m here ta help.” Jazz’s voice lilted and drawled, lazy and friendly. He added, pulling out a wrist cable, “I hear Primus has blessed ya with fast autonomics? Lemme look.” And, after a few surface pings to the sensory net that made Bumblebee’s limbs twitch, “Right on! Gonna make a great scout one day.”
> 
> “Sir! Thank you, sir!” Bumblebee replied.
> 
> Imagine that - a scout! Between his dreams of glory, exploding bases, and daring escapes - and Jazz’s easy banter about who on the base mixed the best engex cocktails - Bumblebee barely sensed gentle probing around his processor. When had he lowered his firewalls for deep access? He was too excited to remember.
> 
> As matter-of-fact as his previous topic, Jazz said, “Charge hikes up all the time, right? A warm field brushes by ya, a mech rolls his hips, anythin’ - must be real hard in the barracks. That’s our frame type for ya.”
> 
> Bumblebee nodded before inhibitions could freeze him. Charge-elevated every half a klik, or just running hot for joors - that wasn’t just him, wasn’t a glitch? To Jazz, it was something one could casually mention. Bumblebee wouldn’t even ask the medics: what if they decommissioned him? The other Autobots never talked about… any of that, so he didn’t either. He wanted to talk more, but didn’t dare, this time.
> 
> Later, when hand-to-hand combat practice grew intense, he would finally ask for advice. Inhibitions? Jazz never showed any. If his job called for training scouts in field applications of Cybertronian sexuality, he just did it, without fear, beyond reproach, and with his habitual easy smile.
> 
> Presently, Jazz’s probes stopped, and he said, “Yep, reflexes made of lightnin’. But,” tapping his helm with one finger, “yer mind’s gotta be even faster. Lemme see what routines we can hack…”
> 
> “Don’t you need medics for that?” Bumblebee asked, impressed more than alarmed, then added, “Sir.” It was easy to forget who the mech was. Everything about Jazz felt like _trust_.
> 
> “Only if ya make a codin’ error,” Jazz replied with a dismissive handwave. “Ya know what they say about sappers and hackers. ‘If at first ya don’t succeed, shoulda picked another trade’!”

Maybe he ‘shoulda’, Bumblebee thought, waking up some more. What had he really understood about the world when he’d chosen to be an Autobot soldier? He’d never even learned the name of the shy technician who’d offered the choice. Just that he, his outpost, and everybody in his suburb had perished in a Decepticon bombing raid.

Bumblebee had trained harder after that raid. Now those skills came handy.

Booting up the sensors in secret was the easy part, but hiding reactions once the data began to flow... From the first glimmers of consciousness, the scout knew this reboot would be a race. _Place your bets, gentlemechs: the scout versus his autonomics!_

He raced his reflexes, booting up the rest of the way to face the first cycle of the rest of his life. His limbs stayed still despite itchy tepid energon shackles. He didn’t thrash or run instinctive ‘ _Where am I?_ ’ scans when he saw enemy-purple walls. Even the view through the window, the metallic sheen of the wrong slagging _planet_ , didn’t make his EM field flare. Cybertron? No, the jagged horizon was too close, the gravity too light, the shadows too crisp in a vacuum. Luna One.

He felt another EM field at his right, an unfamiliar one - a guard? Bumblebee couldn’t see from this pose, leaning on his chair’s left arm. The other mech stayed quiet until the end of Bumblebee’s reboot. _Grats, scout! You win the race._

Too easy: his protocols ran as fast as a simulator under a silly, too-perfect set of parameters. No aches, no urges; still a prisoner, but his frame, processor, and spark felt great. He felt great.

Bumblebee set his chrono for a klik, then sent his analysis routines, memory protocols, and his other processor cycles to idle around that sensation: _strong-well-peaceful_. To dwell on it and in it, to let every last tiny wire absorb the comfort. He needed that, before he’d investigate if he was high or hacked or glitching.

About his infinite reserves of inner peace, Optimus Prime had always said, “No, no, it’s not the Matrix of Leadership, it’s not about who you _are_. Peace is about what you _do_ , about your practices.” The Prime had generously offered to teach said practices to any mech who wanted to try. Surprisingly _nice_ practices, so different from spec ops training. Meditation balanced one for work, but was also a _pleasure_ , its practices made of warm tingles and sweet resonances, like sensory hacks from whispered urban legends.

And now, to work. Negative on drug tests. Firewalls reported no hacks. Bumblebee must have had a great defrag in flight. How?

His last memory was of walking with Megatron, past Soundwave and up the shuttle’s ramp. The scout’s past-self had been sick in his spark, after one of Megatron’s _choices_ : torture a Vehicon, or know he’d be killed. Sick in his spark and glitchy in his processor from recharge deprivation. Everything after that was… Now what? Blocked?!

‘ _Live like yer already dead_ ,’ Bumblebee suddenly recalled, the only time ever Jazz had sounded completely serious. It’d been after Tyger Pax, in reply to the only time ever Bumblebee had mentioned his secret fear: that he’d never been and never would be truly fit for his duty as an Autobot soldier.

He’d argued, objected. “How does that help? Dying feels dreadful and sad - not something to, to _embrace_. When I thought Megatron would torture me to death, I wanted none of it - I only wanted to live! If being left for dead didn’t teach me what you mean, what will?”

“Somethin’ else will teach ya,” Jazz had said cryptically, and switched to tactical exercises. And now, the old message made sense - but why? Was ‘ _something else_ ’ a near-fatal crash, a death of personality? He tried to measure how different his serene present-self was from that sad glitch of a mech from half a cycle ago. Still himself, or not? A dizzy-making question, as if Seekers dropped him to tumble from the sky.

Okaaay. Stop, rebalance, focus on the facts. What could have happened to an Autobot prisoner on the ‘Con shuttle? Deep hacks? Forced into an orgy with all the clones to entertain the officers? Tricked into sitting on Megatron’s lap without a cloth?

Bumblebee raced his imagination like he had his autonomics. Winning, he aborted the routine that kept generating lurid scenarios. Focus. What was that thing blocking his recall?

There had been an intruder in his processor, because a clearly foreign piece of code was sitting there. The memory block wasn’t evading his probes, but it must have duped his firewalls: none fought it or raised alarms.

The scout caught his hands and his EM field from twitching, and made the icy wave of fear recede. Intruder? Then he’d deal with an intruder. Rebalancing was easy. Suspiciously so. Had the intruder hacked his emotional matrix? A quick test found nothing, and Bumblebee went back to checking the memory block.

Someone, he had a good guess who, had installed a series of latches tied to timestamps. Timestamps alone: no hacking into memory banks. The latches engaged when Bumblebee tried to pull up memories from the past seven joors.

During a normal recharge, the defrag process should have tagged and then integrated recent memories. The latches stopped the data from integrating, stopped Bumblebee from knowing what had happened to him. He couldn’t even grab the raw stream of his past consciousness, the lived flow of happenings, feelings, and thoughts.

What a hack! Efficient, clever, creepy: Soundwave.

The scout wanted to burn the enemy code with all the power of his antivirals, and to get the missing piece of his life back. But he looked closer first. The top latch had a tag. It read, ‘Content: disturbing. Review tags/Delete block: Yes/No.’

What had the ‘Cons done to him that called for a warning tag _on warning tags_? Why had they cared to warn him? No, not ‘cared’. His tactical analysis said that mindfrag was their most probable goal. A processor-washing protocol where Bumblebee would repeatedly say ‘Yes’ to hurt, to a self-inflicted slow burn - or else would integrate a large chunk of pain at once for maximum shock.

Soundwave’s techno-cruelty, if Laserbeak hadn’t lied about his personal dislike of the scout? Maybe, but the setup smelled of Megatron’s _experiment_ , of one of his staged scenes with sick choices.

Bumblebee was so done with those!

Imitating Soundwave’s trick, he quickly coded his own memory block; it was easy in one’s own systems. He then sent a couple of search-and-capture routines that locked Soundwave’s code between see-through firewalls, like Steve the scraplet caught in crystal cubes.

Thus prepared, Bumblebee began to let memories through. Just two channels, isolated from the rest, sped up, and dampened: vid and emotions. It was taboo in spec ops to say, ‘Bring it on’ - but he was sure he could cope. Especially if he focused on the reality of visuals and feelings, and muted the fearsome fiction of words.

The low-res, high-speed walk through the shuttle full of clones came with the emotional matrix’s tag of _sad-apprehensive-resolved_. His past-self and Megatron stopped by the pilot’s cabin, Megatron’s lips moved and he gestured - then _sad_ turned into _afraid_ , and _resolved_ into _mortified_. Megatron laughed, the clones laughed; and then the scout was left tied up. For all the clones to?..

Had this scene prompted the intruder’s warning? Bumblebee paused the replay, braced his struts, and pulled his EM field in tighter. He heard the mech next to him stir, staying quiet.

The scout resumed the replay. He expected the clones in front of his past-self, jeering faces, rough hands. Though his frame was neither damaged nor freshly repaired, some violations left no marks. The emotive tags claimed his past-self was suffering. The vid trembled, his hands clenched and pulled on the shackles, his legs twitched. And then... It just went on? Nobody came to force anything disgusting.

Whatever hurt had come his way must have been in words and thoughts. His muddled mind losing its race with his imagination.

The scout paused the replay again. He wanted to grab his past-self like he did in _Two-Timing with the Time Machine_ , and - what? Give him a hug? Talk some sense into the poor guy? What would he even say?

> “Bee, my mech.” In his imagination, past-him flinched as if struck, then beeped a surprised greeting. Past-him beeped a response; he would talk, why not. His fantasy, his rules. “This is sad, but also funny.”
> 
> ::Oh great. Megatron, all the clones… And now, the hallucination of my future-self is here to tease me. Who’s next in line to make fun, Steve the scraplet?::
> 
> Working hard to be brave, but so shaken. Just how Megatron had kept him, starting from the first breems of active torture. Which, the scout had to admit, could have been much harsher, and could have taken up more of his busy schedule of walks, talks, and trying to recharge in a comfy berth.
> 
> Could have taken? It had, too! Starscream’s Seekers had stopped short of pulling his frame apart, but his worry-dreams had kept jerking on his chains. He’d been trying to be the perfect Autobot scout, fearing he’d fail - and secretly wishing for love with Megatron, fearing he’d succeed.
> 
> Past-him winced from something unseen: case in point. Bumblebee tried to make his voice gentle rather than exasperated. “Do you have any idea how silly you look in a sped-up vid? Squirming all by your lonesome... You’d think an invisible Starscream is poking you with his electric slag.”
> 
> ::Why are you being cruel? Are you a ‘Con now? In Megatron’s lap and enjoying it?::
> 
> “Ooh, wouldn’t that be scary? Your future Decepticon self, here to say, ‘ _Bang, you’re dead!_ ’ ” Bumblebee grinned and aimed his finger. His past-self’s shoulders lowered, some of the nervous tension leaving his frame. “Stop making up scary slag, mech. Use your optics. I am still a prisoner. Shackled just the same - isn’t that a boring part of the story? Still an Autobot.”
> 
> ::Still alive.:: Past-Bumblebee sighed, his next words almost too soft to hear. ::Is it… Is it going to hurt?::
> 
> “Dunno, sorry. Memory block.” This mech’s future, Bumblebee’s past: a story unknown. “Not hurting now.” His past-self lowered his head in relief, and the scout pointed out, “ _You_ are not hurting now! Or wouldn’t be, if you could think straight. I won’t be surprised if you mindfrag yourself into a crash. Have mindfragged. Will?..”
> 
> Past-him returned his grin, lips hidden under the battle mask, but cheek plates looking how Bumblebee’s felt. ::One way to find out, eh? Let’s get to it. Make us some better stories.:: He added, shaking his head, ::Why these shackles and slag? Next time, just imagine us on a sunset ride through Nevada!::

Next time, he promised.

And now, back to reality. Past reality. A story of past reality?

In the resumed replay, Megatron and Soundwave came back, and past-Bumblebee sagged in relief, hating himself for it. So much self-sabotage! When Soundwave’s tentacle suddenly appeared, past-Bumblebee’s imagination heaped shock and awe on the mundane: a mech using his limb to adjust a shackle. For crying out loud! The emotive tags were ridiculous. Between his fears, elevated charge, and blaming himself for both, Bumblebee had fragged himself over every which way, worse than all of Soundwave’s tentacles ever could.

The story of his life. Bumblebee had never accepted his officer rank. Jazz had offered many times, and then Optimus Prime. He’d convinced himself, then everyone else, that he wanted the ceremony to happen on free Cybertron. In truth, how could he think of promotions when he felt an impostor as a scout? When only hacked routines kept him from squirming on the rack, only flimsy dreams kept his fears at bay?

But now, that _strong-well-peaceful_ feeling lingered. Content: disturbing? _Bring it on!_ He’d manage his fears, deal with ‘Con cruelty, and defy ‘Bot taboos. No data in this ‘verse could shake Bumblebee out of his newfound Prime-like serenity. He’d watch what happened, and put his own tags on it, slaggit - as if his sad, glitchy, tired past-self was already dead.

He’d see for himself, with fresh optics, like a new organic would. Minus the crying.

Bumblebee removed the dampeners and began to re-live and fully integrate his shuttle ride. Editing pre-processed data was so different from conscious defrag of a raw stream: it streamed by smoothly at 64x speed instead of the heavy crawl in real time. Retagging was a breeze, easy like tweaking an already-created scene. Megatron said scrap, but he and Soundwave hadn’t done anything disturbing; the worst part was seeing himself slide closer and closer to a crash. Pieces of data missing, _blanks_ in his life growing longer, closer and closer together...

He approved his past-self’s decision to accept interface and dual processing with Soundwave. Even though, by elimination, that interface was where the tag-threatened disturbing content must lie. The data package was almost at the end; the rest of the time must have been defrag. ‘There be dragons’, as Fowler said hearing of Predaking.

Either Bumblebee crashed badly, or the ‘Cons took advantage, or both. _Bring it on_...

...Oh. As soon as Soundwave’s recharge protocols engaged, Bumblebee’s frame had decided interface meant interface. _That_ kind of interface. He’d been the one who ‘took advantage’ and turned data exchange into definitely-undoubtedly-sex.

Must he frag Megatron the first moment he lost his inhibitions? _Stop that_ , the scout reminded himself. He had forgotten at the time who the mechs with him were. He could no more control his frame in recharge than escape Megatron’s touches while chained for interrogation. When the last shreds of his consciousness had tried to wake Bumblebee up, he’d almost crashed. That’s right; steer away from self-blame, let fears pass by, drive casually - as cool as if you were dead. He thought of what Jazz would do, and focused on that curious clone’s question, ‘ _Is Lord Megatron good in berth?_ ’

# _GoodInBerth_ , Bumblebee tagged the warlord - at least, with Soundwave driving the interface... Reluctantly. The scout’s blind sleepy frame had been excited about that warm presence, but Soundwave had gone from _sad-ironic-ready_ , to recoiling, to the resigned sense of grim duty under Megatron’s orders. Bumblebee’s tanks roiled. Shared emotive tags and EM fields and snippets of thought couldn’t lie through plugged-in cables (or tentacles). Beyond any doubt, Soundwave felt _forced_.

Bumblebee paused the datastream and went to Soundwave’s memory block, opening it just enough to see top-level tags. How did the mech himself call the experience? # _HealthProblems_ , # _EmotiveGlitches_ , and, yes, # _InvoluntaryInterface_. Was the memory block a gesture of care, after all - care for a fellow victim also forced into the situation? Or a judgment on a perpetrator? Bumblebee had never wanted any of that, he’d been the one tied up and almost crashing from the aftermath of torture, but his reactions had prompted sex, had forced another mech who couldn’t say ‘No’, and even mostly-asleep Bumblebee should have received that mech’s signals and tried to do something, anything, instead of just chasing his own pleasures, and even if Soundwave deserved execution for his war crimes, Bumblebee had never wanted to rape...

“Rise and shine, okay?” a mask-distorted voice said from the right. When Bumblebee didn’t move or talk, the Vehicon continued, “Listen, Autobot, I live in the barracks, okay? Lots of guys don’t want others to know they are awake.” Bumblebee could relate; ‘Con barracks must be much harsher than his recruit-time memories. “I am bored out of my processor sitting here doing nothing, okay? But a mech can get arrested for waking you.”

The game was up. The scout felt strong, but the habit of these little freak-outs had been stronger. He’d raced a fear, and lost. Maybe some cycle, he wouldn’t just be faster than his imagination. He wouldn’t have to race at all.

Reminded once again why spec ops never said, ‘ _Bring it on_ ’, Bumblebee removed his memory block. He integrated the rest of the packaged data, dizzy for a moment from the echo of his past-self’s overload. ‘ _Somethin’ else will teach ya_ ’ - but even Jazz couldn’t have imagined that would involve Bumblebee forcing Soundwave into interface. Life was weirder than any worry-dream!

The newly-integrated data said the mech next to him was a Vehicon, designation T0-1V0, a match to a saved voice signature. His memory also supplied Toivo’s words from yesterday, ‘ _I hope they slag you soon, okay? You shot two of my squad mates._ ’

Bumblebee lit up his optics for his regular, high-res visual feed, and turned to look at the clone. He wouldn’t be surprised by a blaster to his face, like his training memories; whatever Megatron’s orders, this ‘Con was probably as unruly as the lot of them (except one dutiful mech, Bumblebee’s new partner in nightmares). What the scout saw instead was a grounder, in somber black-purple of his clone series, shackled to the chair just the same: left wrist magnetized down, right wrist attached to a steel cord. Another condemned mech? Unlike Steve back on the deck, Toivo looked perky and teeked rather cheerful. That made no sense; was he not just into pain but also into dying? Was that even a thing?

Too much in his captivity made no sense. A tactical subroutine pinged for a high-order analysis, which the scout postponed. Keep the chatty clone talking. Start with an easier question, before interrogating him about who tied whom up, the cheer of death, and other sensitive slag. Bumblebee said, ::Toivo, right? How didya know I am awake? You must be good at it.::

“You aren’t bad yourself, Autobot,” Toivo conceded. “Your fingers didn’t shake, your optics didn’t gleam… It’s your field, okay? You’ve probably recalled something they’ve done to you.”

::More like what I’ve done to them,:: Bumblebee blurted out.

Luckily, he didn’t have to explain. Toivo shrugged, said, “Yeah, right,” and looked Bumblebee up and down. “Well, not everything leaves marks. Commander Starscream…” He shrugged once more, pointed and asked, “Share?”

For an ugly nanoklik, the scout thought Toivo was pointing at his crotch, but no: there were two portable mid-grade cubes left on the edge of his seat, and one of Megatron’s gray detailing cloths. Bumblebee took a cube and reached as far to the right as he could, while Toivo leaned and reached to his left; they barely had enough slack in the cables to meet in the middle.

::What did they get ya for?:: Bumblebee asked, trying to imitate Jazz’s easy friendliness.

Toivo opened the cube, extended a siphon tube from under his mask, took a long draught, and sighed, “Ahh, that’s the stuff!”

Bumblebee thought there would be no answer, but after draining the fuel with appreciative slurps and ex-vents, the Vehicon said, “They didn’t get me. Lord Megatron said I am your guard, but he doesn’t want any temptations.” And added wistfully, “So I am stuck here with you, while they have all the fun!”

Before the scout could point out the absurdity of a tied-up guard, or wonder why guard him if Megatron was watching the security cameras anyway, or ask about _all the fun_ , the front window was flooded with brilliant light. Bumblebee’s optics shut down automatically, and a triggered routine dialed down his audios, made him duck to shield his spark, and forced his arm over his head. The ground under the shuttle shook. When the tremors subsided, Bumblebee opened his optics. In the vacuum of Luna One, pulverized debris of the explosion looked cartoonish: too similar to a better-than-optimal simulation of a nuclear attack.

“Ha, speak of the fun - the timing’s just perfect! They must have found some Terrorcons,” Toivo said, but before Bumblebee could prompt for more, continued, “Frag, was that tactical? I’m not supposed to tell you tactical slag, okay? Hey, I know what we can do. The Seekers say you have that file, with cool stories about you and…” Toivo’s finger pointed up. “And don’t pretend it’s lies, okay? Even if the Seekers don’t have the file. Because I once overheard Doctor Knock Out and Commander Starscream laughing about it. Why don’t you tell me a story, scout?”

The clone didn’t sound mocking, just curious. Bumblebee stared. He thought everybody and their pet scraplet had his worry-dream file by now. Interesting. Just the officers. _‘They’_.

::Won’t you get in trouble with…:: Bumblebee pointed up. Mirroring gestures was a technique for trust.

“For a story? Nah. We aren’t supposed to talk about the officers in berth for real, but stories? Why, a few kilocycles ago Steve uploaded one even the Seekers thought was messed up, where all officers but Commander Starscream were welded aft to mouth and Commander Starscream made them crawl around corridors with an energon whip…”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture!” Bumblebee interrupted.

Toivo chuckled. “Commander Starscream even put a piece of Steve’s story in his _New Fusion_ ,” he sounded envious. “At the very end, and he edited it a bunch, but still. A publication!”

Starscream would, Bumblebee thought. He probably needed to learn what _New Fusion_ was, get more intel. But what he wanted was to delete the nasty summary he already had, and replace the memory chip where it had been with a clean one. He’d decide later; now, he had a choice. Would he share a worry-dream with Toivo, share his private scenes with his imaginary gentle kinky Megatron? Or would he refuse?

::What story do you want, Toivo?:: Bumblebee asked, buying some time to seek a third road.

“Something short, okay? Everybody will be back soonish. Short and simple. I like it when there’s action, not just fragging. When it all makes some sense, okay, especially if there are whips and such slag. And I don’t want to see any gore. As for fragging, no fields or cables. I get too much of that EM scrap in the barracks, okay? I want to see what mechs do when they have a room with a door! To see me a nice big spike.” He showed with his hands. “But hold the body fluids, that’s not my cube of energon.” He laughed at his own pun.

Bumblebee stared at the clone, trying to process the growing list of oddly specific details. He didn’t know what he expected, other than a general theme, but not _that_. Toivo must ask for stories all the time, must talk about them a lot. Oh! Bumblebee had thought the ‘Cons talked about his stories so much only to taunt him, but maybe they just always talked about stories? Glancing at the shackled clone, the scout wondered what other torments that he’d been taking personally were daily parts of the Decepticon life.

Not that repetition excused atrocities.

At least Toivo’s tastes were different from Steve’s. Toivo finished his request slower and quieter, with pauses. “If you have one, find a story where you sit on his lap... I never knew I wanted some of that… But you mentioned it earlier, and slag, that’s hot, okay? In a story, I mean.” Toivo glanced at the ceiling - his usual ‘they watch and I know it’ gesture.

Bumblebee picked up his energon cube, extended a siphon for drinking to match what the clone had done, and turned off his optics against another distant nuclear blast. Those Terrorcons, whoever they were, didn’t stand a chance. He figured he didn’t have to bother with other safety measures: the ‘Cons wouldn’t blow up their own shuttle. As for the story: he wouldn’t refuse Toivo’s request, and he wouldn’t share his old worry-dreams never meant for the public.

::All right then, Toivo. Here’s a story for you. A new one! Nobody has it yet, not even them.:: Bumblebee put the energon cube into his left hand and pointed up. ::Let me know what you think, because you are the first one to hear.::

Toivo said, “Frag yeah!” and banged his hand on the chair arm in triumph.

Maybe he asked for stories all the time, but did he ever get any? Megatron would hear too, Bumblebee thought, and grinned into his battle mask.

> Once upon a time, there was an Autobot scout. He lived his life, drove his patrols, protected the humans…

“Shot my squad mates,” Toivo muttered. Bumblebee paused, but the Vehicon waved him on, “Er, war, okay? Keep going!”

> ...protected the humans, raced around with friends. Until one day, he was captured by the Decepticons. He thought they would execute him. But they just interrogated him, and then…

“Did he tell them slag?” Toivo inquired, then put his hand over his vocalizer. “Frag, I won’t interrupt that much, okay? I just like details!”

::I don’t mind,:: Bumblebee said, hoping Toivo would spill something else tactical. And also, Toivo had said his stories were _cool_. The scout didn’t want to disappoint. He added _#MoreDetails_ to his file with Toivo’s request, and reviewed the other tags once more. Oops, he almost forgot _#NoBodyFluids_. How about:

> ...For shifts and shifts, the Decepticons shocked the scout’s limbs with the energon prod at the highest setting, until his circuits smoked, poured liquid nitrogen on his seams, and even broke off his side view mirror.

Toivo glanced between Bumblebee’s door wings. More details?

> The side view mirror from his left door wing. The scout screamed until his vocalizer shorted out, and wished the ‘Cons would execute him already! But he never told them where the Autobot base was. Even Starscream grew tired, so he locked the scout into a cell, and threw away the door code.
> 
> Except Megatron had the door code override, of course. Once a cycle, he threw a small cube of low-grade fuel at the prisoner’s feet, and mocked him for being helpless and weak. The scout just stood where he was chained to the wall, clenched his fists, glared, but never replied. He waited for Megatron to leave, and only then retrieved the food. That took much agility in chains. After a kilocycle…

“Yeah, silly ‘Bots always tease who they shouldn’t. I bet Lord Megatron punished the rude scout,” Toivo said assuredly. “Or at least threatened him, or something? How did he feel, anyway?”

Bumblebee nodded and took a note. What a strange way to make up a scene, with another mech playing along! Strange, and strangely pleasant, even if his character was suffering. The active torture part of the story wasn’t exactly fun, not like _Free Fall_ and other thrills from his old file. Yet it made his _strong-well-peaceful_ feeling grow. A debriefing of sorts?

> The first time Megatron received no answer, he scowled at the defiant scout, growled like a mad turbofox, and strode out. Next cycle he did that too, because it had worked so well the first time. Then he turned back at the door and threatened, ‘Do you miss your time with Starscream so much?’
> 
> The scout didn’t answer, of course. Next cycle Megatron gave a speech about the eternal glory of the Decepticon empire. The scout remained silent, and the warlord took an energon prod out of his subspace, bent up the front bumper over Bumb… the scout’s chest, and shocked him right to the spark.

Toivo canted his head left and right, peering at Bumblebee’s chest this time, then quietly muttered. Bumblebee heard ‘repair and polish’, and something he couldn’t make out about head and cannon. A private fantasy, he decided - his story must be inspirational. His past-self would be worried and afraid; he just winked at Toivo and continued.

> The scout stayed silent, but Megatron must have teeked his surprise. It was a mild shock, barely a tingle. “This was on the lowest of its eight settings,” Megatron smugly informed the scout. “I will let you sample each of them. You will talk to me, or you will die of spark disruption at the end of a kilocycle. Your choice.”
> 
> On the last night of the kilocycle, the scout sat slumped as low as his chains allowed, but couldn’t recharge. His spark kept flaring and guttering from last cycle’s almost-lethal shock. He tossed and twisted and tried to think yet again of an escape plan. He didn’t want to die! But he couldn’t hack his restraints - he’d tried; and his cell was stuffed with security cameras, and made of solid durabillium, and…

“Why didn’t he just talk to Megatron?” Toivo asked. As many stories as the ‘Cons apparently shared, the simple noble hero tale in the style of Cybertron’s Golden Age seemed unfamiliar to the clone. Bumblebee edited the next paragraph in his speech buffer to explain the conventions.

> ...The door was solid durabillium and guarded, the tiny ventilation hole was barred, and the scout wouldn’t get very far while low on fuel. No, he couldn’t escape. The scout could have talked to Megatron, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, if the warlord thought threats worked, he would have demanded more and more - intel, collaboration, who knew what else.
> 
> It was almost morning when the scout heard a blaring alarm, then shouts and the sounds of running mechs from the corridor. Nothing happened for a while, but then the bars on the ventilation hole rattled. The scout looked, and saw a scraplet chewing through the grille. There was his chance!

Bumblebee paused in case Toivo had something to say. No, unlike the officers, he wasn’t mocking, twisting, or making a drinking game out of the story.

> When Megatron next opened the door, energon prod in hand, he froze and gasped. So the scout knew his seductive pose worked. He stuck his pert hip out even more, wagged his door wings playfully, and said, “Mighty Megatron! When first you entered my cell, I was struck by hot desire. On top of that, I was so angry and confused I couldn’t even talk. Why would I want the leader of the Decepticons? Why would my loved one hurt me so? Why must the war stand between us?”

Show Megatron’s reactions, Bumblebee reminded himself. Did Toivo have a crush on his warlord? Bumblebee’s spark contracted, and he almost laughed out loud when he realized why. Jealous of Megatron, really? For all he knew, Megatron fragged half of his army and the other half just waited their turn. As a matter of fact, this should go into the story...

> Megatron got over his first surprise very quickly, the scout thought. Mechs had to make passes at the warlord all the time. Megatron smirked at the scout, stepped closer, and said, “Do go on.”
> 
> The scout said, “Last cycle, when you shocked me, my last inhibitions crumbled and fell. I was up all night having hot fantasies about you. You can kill me today, but before I die, I have to tell you how I really feel.”
> 
> Megatron froze for a moment, then nodded. He must have spot-checked the security recording and confirmed the scout didn’t recharge. “So, tell me how you really feel,” he said, and absent-mindedly made the prod sparkle against the wall. “What are your fantasies, scout?”
> 
> “Anything I imagine with you makes my engine rev up,” the scout said, and revved up his engine. “I know it might be too much to ask, but can you hold me for just a moment? I want to feel your hands on me, to feel your field close, to lean my head on your chest next to your spark…”
> 
> At that, Megatron’s engine revved up too. He grabbed the scout by a wrist, and demagnetized his shackles from the chains. He must have sent a signal, because a plain bench unfolded from the wall. The warlord led the scout to it, sat down, and then lifted his prisoner to sit on his lap.

“Have any media for that, scout?” Toivo asked, his voice staticky.

Bumblebee hesitated, but he loved to see Toivo leaning toward him as if drawn into story, the heated field trustingly unfolded. Jazz would be proud; and slag, why not share visuals too? ::Wait a klik,:: he said.

He dug through the many files - fourteen and two more in space, as Megatron counted for him - where a suitable image of him on Megatron’s lap might be. Bumblebee grabbed a frame from a video, and quickly replaced its Earth flower-meadow background with gray-purple walls of the Nemesis. There were plenty of those walls in his intel files, way more than he ever wanted to see again.

Bumblebee unlocked his wrist panel, flicked his arm to make the interface cable pop out, and offered it to Toivo. The clone took the cable, paused, then said, “Don’t try anything funny, Autobot, okay? Commander Soundwave runs our firewalls, and he’s good!” Then he plugged Bumblebee’s cable into his port.

While Toivo’s protocols ran a slow cautious handshake, Bumblebee continued the story.

> True to his words, the scout leaned his helm on Megatron’s chest and carefully put one arm around his waist.
> 
> “Do not be shy, scout. It is your fantasy, after all,” the warlord said. He was definitely not shy: he grabbed the scout’s aft with his one free hand.
> 
> By Dragonofdispair
> 
> “I am too excited!” the scout said breathlessly, and shuddered all over to show that he was. “Maybe… Do you have high-grade?” He lowered his voice. “Would you feed me?”
> 
> Megatron’s engine shifted up another gear at these words. He put the prod into his subspace, and pulled out a cube of fine energon. He lifted the drink to the scout’s lips and slowly tilted the cube. When the scout finished drinking, Megatron leaned over and licked the last drops off his lips, and then…

“But you have a mask,” Toivo objected, startling Bumblebee enough that he spilled some of the fuel he forgot he was still holding in his left hand.

In response, Bumblebee took the cube in his freer right hand, lowered his mask, and gulped down the rest of his food.

Toivo muttered, “Nice lips.”

Did Toivo have lips under his mask? The scout ran a quick scan. Yes to that question, and yay for his story’s effect: Toivo was running hot! Bumblebee dispersed the cube, dabbed his mouth with the cloth, wiped the spilled energon from the chair’s arm, and imagined how Jazz would have licked it up to tease more. ‘ _In the story, Commander!_ ’ Bumblebee silently admonished.  

> ...and then the warlord gave the scout a kiss. His lips were surprisingly soft. For a moment, the scout forgot about the war, their factions, and his still-pending execution. When their lips parted, he spoke. His voice was stronger. He wasn’t hungry anymore, even slightly overcharged. Boldly, the scout said, “Your touch is beyond my fantasies, and your lips are divine. I want to feel more of you, to enter you as a lover would, if that’s the last thing I do in this world!”
> 
> Megatron shook his head. His laugh was low. The scout’s struts resonated with the vibrations. “If that’s the last thing you do,” Megatron repeated, then looked the scout up and down, and said mockingly, “What would you even do if I permit you to enter me, _little_ scout?”
> 
> “There’s more to me than meets the eye,” the scout said. He wasn’t shy anymore. “Haven’t you heard rumors about special mods for spec ops? The rumors are true, and more! I don’t want to brag, but I think you’ll be impressed.”
> 
> “Show me,” Megatron growled, and his valve cover opened. The scout looked, and saw the most glorious valve in the ‘verse. The edge blinked with purple biolights, the entrance was slightly open, and the outer calipers vibrated very promisingly.
> 
> The scout gently circled the edge of Megatron’s valve with his clever fingers. The warlord moaned. Then the scout teased a sensor cluster at the top, and Megatron ordered, “Show me, now!”
> 
> “My spike uses subspace transformations,” the scout said. He withdrew his fingers from the valve, making Megatron growl in frustration, then lifted his still-shackled hands, clenched into fists. His voice was full of sexy static when he added, “Transformations, and weak antigrav.”
> 
> The warlord swallowed loudly, then punched codes into shackles. The energon bands on the scout’s wrists retracted into their housings. The housings fell to the floor. The scout opened his interface panel and extended his spike. Then he transformed his crotch area. Pieces of armor opened like petals of a diaphragm. His spike extended some more. There were whirrs and buzzes. His armor shifted, his spike extended, and it kept on growing and growing until the tip bonked Megatron on his chest. Right over the Decepticon insignia.

“No way!” Toivo said, laughing. “That’s too awesome, okay?!”

Bumblebee was prepared to say, ‘ _In the story_ ’ with a wink, but Toivo didn’t ask.

> Megatron stared, then touched the tip with one finger. The massive shaft trembled, and with it, the scout’s whole frame. “Will it even?..” For the first time, the scout heard the warlord’s voice waver in doubt.
> 
> “Do you want me to make the spike smaller?” the scout asked.
> 
> “No! Bring it on, Autobot!”
> 
> “I will have to prepare you, then,” the scout said. “Spec ops has tricks for that, too. Jazz has taught me himself.”
> 
> He jumped down to stand, and nimbly used the antigrav to balance the tip of his spike on Megatron’s thigh. The scout massaged the edge of Megatron’s valve with one hand, but he kept the other clenched into fist at the entrance. Slowly, little by little, he pushed his fist inside, until the calipers relaxed and let it in…
> 
> ...And then, the scout opened his fist and let out the scraplet he’d been holding all this time. He had caught the scraplet earlier, while the guards had been distracted. He had held the scraplet so that it couldn’t open its maw.
> 
> The scout withdrew his hand quickly. He heard the muffled whirr of the creature’s maw opening wide, and then Megatron’s bellow of unimaginable pain. The scout transformed his spike away and dashed for the still-open door. He glanced back, and saw the warlord rolling on the floor. His hands were desperately clawing between his legs.

“What? Nooo!” Toivo exclaimed, crossing his own legs. He shook a little, and Bumblebee heard suppressed chuckles, but the clone also glanced at the ceiling and shivered. In the story or not, that might have crossed some of the Decepticon lines. He was about to cross more.

The shuttle’s console came online, sounded a signal Bumblebee didn’t know, and then transmitted Megatron’s voice: “All units, return. The operation is finished.”

Bumblebee’s nice break was almost over. Real Megatron would be back soon, back to his real story with his mindfrags, his games, and his experiments. One almost wished for a simple shock prod instead! ‘Bring it on’ - Bumblebee didn’t say or think that. He just grinned, and hurried to wrap up his scene.

> The scout ran out into the corridor… Smack into a corridor guard, a Vehicon grounder. The scout froze, and the Vehicon froze, but then he said, “Are you escaping? Can I come with you?”
> 
> The scout didn’t have time to ask why, but he figured Megatron would blame everybody around, especially the guards. The two escaping mechs ran for the exit to the flight deck. They dodged corridor patrols. Just when they reached the outside, the general alarm blared from the wall speakers. Megatron must have extracted the scraplet and called for a chase.
> 
> Luckily, the flight deck was empty, and the Nemesis was flying low. The scout grabbed tarps that covered equipment from Earth moisture, and fashioned them into two crude parachutes.

“That’s all very convenient,” Toivo pointed out, but his voice sounded like he was smiling under his battle mask. “Another spec ops trick?”

::Spec ops never shares its tricks,:: Bumblebee said with a laugh. He was rather proud of how incredibly silly his story turned out. Clearly not realistic, and that would be his excuse should Megatron get angry. Though Megatron was unlikely to give any frags about excuses.

Bumblebee felt the shuttle shake a little, probably from mechs entering. At least the story was almost over.

> The scout and the Vehicon jumped down, and disappeared into a cloud. They landed on trees that broke their fall, and suffered no serious damage. They ran for a road they’ve spotted nearby, then raced. The clouds were gorgeous red from the setting sun, and the runaways drove toward it, because that’s where the Autobot base was. They reached the base before the darkness fell.

“Huh,” Toivo said, scratching behind his narrow audio finial with a claw. “Did the Autobots shoot the Vehicon then?”

::No, Toivo, nobody…:: Bumblebee began, but there was a hum of the opening door.

Megatron said, in his usual no-slag-surprises-me tone, “Late to rise, early to interface, scout?”

::Three stars out of five, Megatron. The rhythm is off,:: Bumblebee retorted.

Toivo hurriedly unplugged and dropped the forgotten cable, then straightened to attention as best he could while shackled to a chair. True to his words, he looked all audios for how Megatron felt - unwilling to tease who he shouldn’t.

Even if the clone wasn’t listening to him anymore, the traditional end of the story was Bumblebee’s sincere wish to him. ::As I was saying, Toivo, nobody shot anybody. They all lived happily ever after.::


	12. Comments and Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron's shuttle carrying Bumblebee lands on Cybertron, its dead surface a reminder of the war’s cost. Yet the scout has new hopes: the warlord agreed to trade a valuable boon for Bumblebee’s cooperation in the Festival of the Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee/Megatron, Soundwave, Toivo the Vehicon, Vehicons  
> Tags: Psychological Torture, Mentioned Torture and Non-Con, Mindfrag, Sadness

::They all lived happily ever after.:: Bumblebee finished his story for Toivo, rounding off his take on a plucky scout escaping Megatron’s clutches with a newfound Vehicon sidekick.

He looked up from his equally-shackled Vehicon listener, and caught Megatron’s attentive snarky glance.

The warlord had returned from hunting Terrorcons just in time to catch the end of the story in person. He stood leaning against the shuttle’s wall, his arms crossed with the fusion cannon at the top, one foot resting on the edge of Toivo’s seat. In the small cabin, he reeked of fresh radioxenon from the nuclear blasts, the usual welding-fume tang of the outer space, and a recent victory.

Megatron must have heard all of Bumblebee’s story via surveillance, and was sure to make fun of it - or worse. _Not hurting now_ , the scout reminded himself of his reality, the mantra against imagined fears, which he’d told imagined past-him in their imagined chat.

“Five stars out of five to you for propaganda, scout,” Megatron… praised?

He stepped in front of the co-pilot’s chair to unlock and collect the restraints holding Toivo. The Vehicon stood to attention, while Megatron sat down in the pilot’s seat.

“Remember that charming tale, T0-1V0,” Megatron continued. “If you prove yourself in the games and become an officer, remember how Autobot propaganda works. There are no mentions of the full repairs and follow-up medical care we provided. Personal officer quarters with an energon dispenser and an excellent berth have turned into a small cell. How long has your interrogation really lasted, scout?”

Bumblebee shrugged. ::I don’t feel like studying these memories. It’s a story, Megatron. Some of it is worse or better than real life, some of it is made up, and:: - he looked the warlord in the optics - ::some parts I’ve left out.::

“Your overload,” Toivo muttered with a sigh.

Bumblebee definitely didn’t want to retrieve _those_ memories. Was the clone out of his slagging processor, to sound _envious_? Bumblebee had the reeling sensation of a true alien encounter, maybe with a gaseous eleven-dimensional rep from a planet far, far away. He remained silent, like the scout in his new story.

Megatron said, “Meanwhile, the real Autobots attacked our mine, blew up what they didn’t steal, and killed _all_ the guards.” Megatron’s optics and badge on the chest briefly flashed purple.

Bumblebee wondered what Dark Energon was doing to the warlord these days, while Unicron slept. But first of all, he was all audios for news of his friends! The Autobots were out there, alive, fighting, gathering supplies. So good to know.

Megatron continued, “They took two prisoners, but threw one out before they even left the area, with a blaster hole melted through his spark chamber. I think the trooper who died faster is the lucky one, don’t you, T0?”

“Yes, my lord,” Toivo said very quietly, and the scout recalled a part of his story request, ‘ _I don’t want to see any gore_.’

Bumblebee empathized with Toivo’s fear, even though he wanted to celebrate. Taking prisoners could only mean the Autobots sought intel about their missing scout. In his memory, only Ratchet, while high on Synth-En, had tried to interrogate a clone - with a welder to his optic. That episode was probably in Soundwave’s file with Autobot atrocities. Usually they just shot the clones, because they assumed… _Stop calling our faction ‘they’_ , Bumblebee told himself as he set a reminder to update his files related to the clones. He’d gathered solid intel on the topic. The games would give him more.

“But I am happy to see _you_ are rested, healthy, and telling frisky tales,” Megatron said to Bumblebee.

::Because you want me well for your experiment?::

“Because I want you well for my experiment,” Megatron confirmed. “Glad we are on the same page. The experiment, and the games. T0, dismissed.”

The clone bowed to Megatron and left without another glance at Bumblebee. Soundwave slid from behind the chairs where he must have been lurking all this time, and sat down in the co-pilot’s place. For a nanoklik, Bumblebee was back in time, Soundwave’s presence resonating everywhere in him, as if clever warm tentacles branched into infinite myriads inside the scout’s sensory net, processor, and spark.

A mutually-unwanted interface. Bumblebee’s tanks heaved, but Soundwave looked and teeked as inscrutable as ever. It was a guilty relief that the scout didn’t have to cope with Soundwave’s feelings on top of his own. Yet. He’d have to address the incident.

“I trust you reviewed the game rules while pretending to recharge?” Megatron asked. He and Soundwave plugged into the shuttle and began to prepare for take-off.

::I did not. What made you think I will play?:: Bumblebee said. Megatron wanted something from him, which meant leverage.

Megatron didn’t try to make Bumblebee call him ‘lord’ this time, or otherwise pay for answers. “A reasonable question, scout. You may want to play because the Festival of the Two is a piece of old Cybertronian culture you have never experienced. Because the games are a symbolic step toward peaceful Cybertron. Because you might wish to move around after being cooped up. And because we can provide alternative occupations that you will find less entertaining - or less comfortable.”

That was a clear threat, the first such announcement since Bumblebee’s capture. The first toward the scout, that is. Megatron seemed to have a habit of threatening others, had threatened the clones with execution and Starscream with group rape. The warlord must really want the scout in the games. Or was Megatron aiming to shatter Bumblebee’s newly found inner calm? Maybe it was a slip, the warlord angry enough to break the rules of his experiment. He might be mad over the Autobot raid, or something the ‘Cons have done. As the leader of his messed-up faction, it was Primus’ own miracle that Megatron wasn’t angry every nanoklik.

Bumblebee tuned down the snark in his reply. _Careful!_ ::Reasonable answers, Megatron. Or they would be, except I am not all that keen on culture and symbols while a prisoner. I do want to go for a spin outdoors, but not like this.:: Bumblebee lifted his right hand, shackled and trailing the steel cord almost as thick as his wrist. ::As for torture, I can hold out long enough that your games will come and go.:: He shrugged, trying to look more sure than he felt. That the games would be short was just a guess. ::You can drag me around, but you can’t make me _play_.::

“Soundwave, excellent job defragmenting his processor. Look at him, so savvy!” Megatron said. “What do you want for your cooperation, scout? In the spirit of staying _reasonable_ , don’t ask to be released, or for anything tactical.”

In the spirit of staying reasonable, he also wouldn’t trust Megatron to keep his word. Bumblebee couldn’t ask not to be molested again, or for uninterrupted recharge after the games. Not for promises, not for objects the ‘Cons could give and then take away, nothing for the Autobot war effort… Not for freedom. What then?

Bumblebee said, ::I want a real-time, unmonitored call with Optimus Prime.:: And then added more wishes to leave room for bargaining, ::I also want a break from the itchy shackles, three last issues of _New Fusion_ , my input on the rules of the games, Soundwave’s file of Autobot atrocities:: - he paused, cycled a vent, then made himself continue - ::and a private conversation with Soundwave. All before the games start.::

Soundwave must have heard, but didn’t visibly react.

Megatron lifted one optic ridge and grinned. “Such varied desires. I am surprised you didn’t add a box of fancy sweets with a bow, and your pet scraplet in a jar.”

Bumblebee wondered how Steve the scraplet was doing, and if Steve the Vehicon still lived. The shuttle’s artificial gravity switched on, the scout’s weight quadrupling, and then the moonscape dived down and away. In a few kliks, he would step off the shuttle’s ramp, onto the metal of his burned-down home planet. He didn’t think treats or pets would lighten that experience - nothing ever had.

In contrast, flying a drone shuttle was easier to bear than it had ever been before. _Not hurting now_ , Bumblebee repeated silently, the ward against his fear of heights and space.

And then he couldn’t spare any worry for the flight, because Megatron said, “Prime keeps asking to talk to you, as well. I also have a recorded message for you from the Autobots.”

::You what? When has it arrived? Why haven’t you - …:: Bumblebee stopped his outburst, his thoughts racing. Was it an encrypted message that Soundwave intercepted? A few words of support Optimus Prime recorded during a live call, on the slim chance Megatron would agree to pass that on? Or had Optimus negotiated for a comm?

“I received the message just before we left Earth, while you were bonding with the troops in the shuttle.”

Megatron fell silent and busied himself with piloting. What if the warlord told Bumblebee nothing else about the message? Maybe he lied and Optimus hadn’t tried to send any messages at all! Bumblebee decided he _must_ get in contact with the Autobots. He wouldn’t play in the slagging Festival or any of Megatron’s sick little games, he wouldn’t talk or walk when lead and torture be damned, he...

“A live call is too much,” Megatron said. “Maybe later, when you cooperate better. Spend more than a cycle without taking my doctor hostage or trying to sneak comms, then we will see.” Bumblebee narrowed his optics, preparing for a fight. Megatron continued, “How about a compromise? I will give you the Autobot message, and then you can record your own. You are welcome to make up as much of it as you have in your latest story, but do not try to send any of the intel that you have undoubtedly scouted. I will preview your recording for tactical data and then send it on. I will also grant all these other requests,” Megatron waved his hand dismissively, showing that he saw decoys for what they were.

::How will I know you do send my message?:: Bumblebee asked.

Megatron thought for a while, or maybe focused on the landing. Cybertron loomed ahead, the terminator jagged from the massive-scale devastation on the ground. The warlord said, “Prime can send a copy of your recording back with his authentication overlay.”

Not an answer, but a guaranteed delivery. Not a private comm, but then, what Bumblebee wanted to say wasn’t secret. He would shout his message from the rooftops, post to all the nets, broadcast at the whole universe - that he was still alive, an Autobot, fighting for their cause!

::I will play in the Festival of the Two, _after_ you give me the Autobot message, send the recording of mine to Optimus Prime, give me the confirmation of him receiving it, and fulfil the other requests I had,:: Bumblebee summarized.

Megatron said, “Agreed.”

They landed across the rusty plane from the blackened twisted ruins of the Omega Lock, by the shiny cylindrical apartment building Megatron had erected to test the device before aiming it at Earth. This place! The ruins a monument to the Autobots’ darkest hour, their hope to restore their planet shattered, their base on Earth burned, their Prime lost.

Bumblebee pulled himself out of memories, though it took a long self-talk. _The Autobots burned the ‘Con base too. We have weapons, Ultra Magnus’ spaceship, and a ground bridge. Optimus is back with us, and he can fly! I am about to see his face, hear his voice, and send a message to my family. I have my wits and my health. The games may not be great fun, but Megatron says they aren’t designed for murder either. If I can move around in the games, maybe I can escape._

Megatron led him out of the shuttle. They were the first two to step out, their wrists linked by the steel cord. Megatron stopped to the right of the shuttle’s ramp, looking at the Omega Lock ruins with the longing Bumblebee shared. Soundwave moved to the other side of the ramp, and the clones began to file out, carrying loads on antigrav pallets into the apartment building.

Megatron’s face hardened with resolve, then reset to his habitual mask of knowing, derisive irony. “I find it curious that the Autobots delegated their newest and youngest member to send you their greetings,” Megatron said. “A special friend of yours?”

Of course the slagger had viewed the message. And it wasn’t from Optimus. If it was from all the Autobots, why Smokescreen? Maybe the rookie insisted, thought Bumblebee with a little smile. Optimus Prime was Smokescreen’s real hero, but Bumblebee knew that Smokescreen looked up to him as well - asked for stories about his battles, imitated his tactics, said Bumblebee rocked. They weren’t lovers as Megatron hinted, but they were good friends.

Megatron took a chip out of subspace and gave it to Bumblebee. He didn’t try to fake any sense of privacy, to leave his prisoner in a room with hidden cameras. No, the warlord stood right there and watched.

Bumblebee plugged the chip into his wrist port and played the recording on his HUD. Smokescreen’s angry face overlaid Omega Lock’s ruins - and in that first moment, Bumblebee knew something was very wrong.

Smokescreen said, “I thought you were a hero, Bumblebee. I thought you were my friend. I was wrong. How could you join the ‘Cons? How can you just hop into berth with Megatron, after all he has done?” He waved his hand, as if trying to wipe away everything about the scout, then finished, bitter and convinced, “ Your stories are ugly and your acts are worse. Your loss. You’ll be on the wrong side when the Autobots win.”

The image blinked out and the message ended. It had an attachment: a cartoon scratched out on painted metal, one of Bulkhead’s distinctive doodles. Two stick figures were fragging turbofox style, spike in valve. Helms showed them as Bumblebee and Megatron. The figures had two deeper, criss-crossed scratches over them, and the word ‘No’ in large glyphs underneath.

Bumblebee grew dizzy and sat down. He almost fell even so, and grabbed the steel cord that held his right wrist above his head. His optics were already turned off, but he tucked his face into the crook of his left arm, as if it could have helped him unsee. He tried to talk to himself, but only echoes came - ... _hurting… now..._

After a too-short while, Megatron said, his voice almost lost in the static of Bumblebee’s glitching systems, “You can record your message to Optimus Prime on the shuttle console. It links to the Nemesis comms, and from there to the Autobots. And to our media dump, so I can download _New Fusion_ for you. Maybe you can publish a story in the next issue. I am sure _Fusion_ audience will not consider your stories _ugly_.” He pulled on the cord, forcing Bumblebee to stand up. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ends on a sad note, and leaves many questions. To make that dip of hope more bearable, I finished the next chapter before posting this, and I will update soon. The next chapter takes a look at what the Autobots and their human allies have been doing, thinking, and discussing since Bumblebee’s capture.
> 
> What space smells like? http://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2012/07/what-space-smells-like/259903/


	13. Seven Blind Autobots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee’s only glimpses of what is happening with the Autobots have been through Megatron’s words, and then Smokescreen’s harsh message. On the Autobot side, Bumblebee’s capture and Megatron’s spin on it awake old fears and create new worry-dreams. The Autobots and their human allies struggle to make sense of what little they know. They can’t help but fixate on the details that affect them the most. They try to arrange their own coherent stories out of past experiences, current events, and guesses at what other mechs’ words really mean. Yet a coherent story that makes sense and fits all facts can be wrong, deceitful - or cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee/Megatron, Megatronus/Orion Pax, Megatron/Optimus Prime, Optimus Prime/Ratchet, Ultra Magnus/Wheeljack, Autobots and their human friends, Starscream, Knock Out, Steve the Vehicon  
> 

Sculpture by [Ravi Zupa](http://www.ravizupa.com/mightier-than/)

 

### Capture

The alarm caught Optimus leading a strategic meeting. Bumblebee had been ambushed on his daily sunset ride. The scout alerted the base and had begun streaming data while the Seekers were still descending. Optimus watched through Bumblebee’s optics as the scout transformed, ducked, shot - and then froze when the first plasma ring of Starscream’s Immobilizer beam hit him in the chest. The air commander kept the beam on; coruscating lightning engulfed the scout’s frame. It was eerily silent, the weapon denying Bumblebee the option of screaming; and then everything ended in the static of a comm jammer.

Optimus knew what an ambush meant. Cliffjumper, Smokescreen, and himself had been taken in open battles. This was different. “Agent Fowler, we have an information leak, likely human,” he called, before following Ultra Magnus’ command in a hasty evacuation to a new base.

A new base that meant even more humans would learn of their existence, their circumstances… and their location.

### There and Then

The HUD timer filled Bumblebee’s vision, his mind, and his world. He didn’t see two Seekers pulling his legs apart by long chains, or Starscream’s smirk. As per protocol, only a few kliks were left until the Autobots evacuated. _Speak now_ , his reason screamed at him, _the ‘Cons must know where the base is if they’ve laid an ambush; Optimus wouldn’t want you crippled; this is more than you can take_. He ignored that voice too, as nanokliks on his HUD trickled down. He endured, he didn’t talk, and he didn’t notice that Megatron entered the deck, pausing to observe.

***

Optimus flew as co-pilot to Wheeljack in the _Iron Wheel_ to transport the ground bridge that had already delivered everyone else to their new base. He opened the file Megatron had sent. ‘ _Fingers strong enough to crush durabillium armor gently danced on Bumblebee’s neck…_ ’

The naive, slightly clumsy story brought a vivid flashback of these gray hands from the past long gone - and Optimus’ recent stint being Orion Pax, its intimate details suggested, insinuated, and hinted at by Megatron. Optimus had no recollection of that one, but the old times...

Megatronus’ hands had been incredible - expressive in debates, lethal in gladiatorial fights, gentle in interface. Every fingertip a sharp weapon, such contrast to the blunt digits of Orion the archivist. So clever at play. That first time Megatronus had pulsed _different_ EM rhythms through his two fingers up Orion’s valve and his thumb on a sensor node near the root of Orion’s spike! The vivid image capsized, and then shifted. One of the happy lovers was replaced with a tricked amnesiac - and then with an unwilling, resisting captive. Optimus stifled a keen.

He understood Bumblebee and his stories only too well. Images of love stood for wishes of peace.

And what images did Megatron go by? Optimus recalled a folk saying, ‘ _Hooks, chains, and the wrench: a frag’s as good as a hitch_.’ Megatronus had shared quite a few, all horrifying in their implications: ‘ _He beats you? Means he loves you!_ ’ and ‘ _Endure the endura, and love will follow_ ’ and ‘ _A mounted turbofox has been in heat_ ’. Megatronus used to dream of free love, of liberating ‘the folk’ from such dark oppressive relationships. How sad that Megatron was passing on that darkness to the next generation, to someone who hadn’t even been with a lover - or seen peace outside of dreams.

### RPF and Propaganda

“We have a situation.” Optimus Prime sighed, passing data chips to his two officers. “Bumblebee has created an extensive collection of ‘erotic art’ as Megatron put it, featuring himself and Megatron.”

Ultra Magnus froze, as if re-running that message so it would yield different data.

Ratchet curtly nodded. He must have gleaned something via medical access, Optimus thought. The medic only shrugged in response to Optimus’ questioning look. Ratchet was very particular about patient confidentiality.

Ultra Magnus didn’t even vent, but a strange soft sound was heard from his chest. Ratchet snapped, “Does talk about interface make you malfunction, commander? Your motor sounds wrong.”

“What, doctor? No, that is not my motor.” He moved the left door panel on his chest aside, and Optimus saw a small black-and-white cat sleeping there. “Agent Fowler said Prowl… the juvenile catsus from the old base could come with us.”

Ratchet slapped his hand over his face.

Optimus said, “Megatron’s words are never reliable, but here is what he told me: ‘Imagine the humans first learning about Cybertronians in the context of an interface scandal centered on Autobot Bumblebee.’”

After a pause, Ultra Magnus said, “Sir, consider history.” His flat voice revealed ongoing tactical computations. “The Decepticons’ first PR campaign launched with Megatron and Soundwave in an indecent situation on the cover of _Fusion_.”

Optimus nodded. “Megatron quoted Starscream quoting the humans: ‘Sex sells’.”

***

Megatron dropped the unconscious Bumblebee onto the medberth, trying to spare his injuries without looking gentle. “Full repairs, doctor. I want the scout mostly functional next cycle.”

“Pain management?” Knock Out drawled, and then added, “My liege.”

That smirk made Megatron shiver inside, and he raised his voice. “No playing! Keep him in stasis until repairs and major self-repairs are over.” Preventing complaints about work off-shift, he sweetened the order. “You have permission to buff and detail him. Nothing more.”

“Any mods?” Knock Out pointedly stared at Bumblebee’s interface equipment behind the panel that hang half-open, splattered in energon and lubricant. “If he’s still _stock_ , anything larger than your finger…”

“Nothing more!” Megatron growled.

“Of course, my lord.” Knock Out’s bow wasn’t quick enough to hide his smirk. “Mutilation is fun too.”

 _We need another doctor in the house_ , Megatron thought for the four millionth time as he left.

***

“Even a cursory processing of the file yielded a pattern, sir,” Ultra Magnus began.

Ratchet saw subtle signs that Optimus was meditating to rebalance - dimmed optics, patterned vents - and answered in his stead, “Go on.”

“‘Scarred lips caressed sensitive neck cables’ - ‘A claw traced from his chin down’ - ‘Megatron slowly stroked the neck and...’”

“Yip-yip, we get the picture,” Ratchet interrupted. His tanks roiled, but not from discussing interface; the Autobots could do with more of that.

The commander stiffened, then continued, “All scenarios start thus. I have run a relational analysis with military records. The most probable conclusion is that the scout was… prompted into his stories by his untreatable injury. Doctor, do you have any specific supporting evidence?”

Ratchet hummed, considering. His evidence came with a heaped serving of his specific guilt. If only his treatment hadn’t left Bumblebee impaired! Even if that was beside the point of the current conversation. The scout’s fantasy file had popped up a few times in his recently-used cache, which Ratchet had needed to check for errors during treatment. The fantasies might have started as a coping mechanism, but they could be a healthy part of a fuller, happier life.

He’d never betray a patient’s trust, but he would get glimpses, teasing insights into what was going on under the surface. He would often imagine diving deep into another’s system, a voyeur in a rich media of memories and dreams. That’s what Megatron had done to Bumblebee, hadn’t he? Might be doing again, right now, Cortical Patch linking their minds. Was it strange for the warlord, running into sex images of himself? Ratchet recalled a glimpse from the file cache: Megatron on all fours, Bumblebee pounding into his valve from behind. They were on an organic rug made of long, soft, glossy-white fur, by a full-wall window in a ground-floor shop. The window must have been one-way and soundproof, because the passers-by totally ignored the scene. Ratchet wished he could, but motion pictures with sounds conveyed much data even if he tried to skip them scrolling by.

Yet Megatron didn’t seem to mind exhibiting himself. He would put scenes like that on display for both factions and the humans. Exhibiting himself - and the scout. How did Bumblebee feel, forced in front of that one-way, wrong-way window? He’d never said a word about his file. Was it because he would hate to share with anyone, or because he thought others wouldn’t accept? Probably both; if Ratchet ever prayed, he’d beg Primus to grant Bumblebee strength.

Optimus touched Ratchet’s shoulder, breaking his reverie. “Old friend, I know you do not invade patient privacy. However, Megatron is sharing that file rather wide. Given the risk of insinuations, it is in Bumblebee’s best interests…”

“Yes, I have plenty of _supporting evidence_ his wound prompted the file at first,” Ratchet said, grief boiling into anger. “And give me two kliks with any Autobots you catch _insinuating_. The fraggers will beg to donate their nonsense-spouting vocalizers to our scout!”

### Need-to-know

Knock Out whistled while he worked (an ultrasound frequency calculated to annoy or hurt the audios of would-be listeners), and muttered at his unconscious patient. “Them struts, them struts got to walk around… Leg strut connected to the hip strut… It did, didn’t it, but then your leg was dislocated. Tricky to reach without taking your whole hip assembly apart. And that, my pretty, would mean joors of work. We don’t want that, do we? Maybe through your subspace?” Knock Out stuck his hand there, and pulled out a yellow toy car, the human model of the scout’s alt form. “How come Starscream didn’t confiscate it with the rest? Aww, it must be his gift for me. How touching.”

Knock Out drove the car up Bumblebee’s leg and chest, revving up his own engine on the uphill parts. The yellow toy made a beautiful contrast, he decided, even while the scout’s mostly-black camouflage armor was still badly scratched and dented. “With Airachnid gone, nobody here is really into snuff, so you might keep a while. My liege doesn’t let me race the Vehicons, but if you stay, maybe you and I…” He sighed, put the smeared toy into the used tool tray for later cleanup, and stuck his hand back into Bumblebee’s subspace to try and set the hip joint.

***

Jack had seen Raf very afraid, worried, or sad before: when the Decepticons took him hostage, when Bumblebee was in stasis, when Raf had had no news of his family. He’d never… fell apart this way. What was the war doing to him?

“How d-do they knooow!” the usually quiet Raf cried with abandon. “Cliiifjumper!”

Fowler caught Raf in an inescapable hug as the boy made to follow the Autobots into the large hangar where Optimus called a general meeting, robots-only. Ultra Magnus had even given Jack his kitten to hold, because he deemed that the Omega Key bearer must be responsible enough for the task. Nobody had been able to convince the commander that cats - or rather, his cat - couldn’t understand speech.

Jack had seen the soldiers hastily moving humvees to other hangars as he and Arcee had first entered the base. The military were patrolling around the base while all the Autobots were occupied. Peering in after Optimus, Jack saw that the hangar was now empty of human vehicles, though it still had tool shelves, a pile of scrap parts in the corner, and other debris around the edges. Optimus closed the hangar door behind him, and Jack turned to his still-crying friend.

Fowler said, “If Prime tells us this is different from Cliffjumper’s situation, then it’s different. Look, the Decepticons have captured all of us since then, robots and humans, and we all survived. Let them talk, son. If the Autobots want to keep something…”

Raf’s sobs filled the pause while Fowler searched for a word. ‘Secret’ could push Raf to hack and spy, Jack thought. “Private,” Fowler finished. “We have to respect their privacy.”

Optimus had announced that the humans must have told the ‘Cons where to find Bumblebee. After that, Jack had asked - and Arcee had said she still trusted him. Still, Jack couldn’t blame the Autobots for wanting more… privacy and security as they discussed the rescue.

“But we are fa-family! Optimus sa-sa-says!” Raf managed.

Jack exchanged glances with his mother. They’d talked about Raf’s _different_ family several times, but Jack didn’t want to criticize their culture.

Miko apparently didn’t mind. “Raf, you once said that your mom watches you so much that she has eyes on the back of _your_ head! How does that make you feel? Privacy, man, privacy is freedom!” She made horns with her fingers, as if talking about her beloved rock music.

“Let us take a dinner break,” June said in her medical-order tone, and Fowler added, awkwardly patting Raf on his back, “We’ll need your mind sharp for the rescue.”

Raf nodded, and stopped crying.

***

“We have as much right as June and Fowler!” Miko yelled, making Prowl the kitten meow in Jack’s arms. She kicked Optimus Prime’s foot for emphasis. “You never mind age! That’s why I love you dorks!”

Jack said, “We fight by you, see you shot, go to your planet - why exclude us now?”

Raf stood silent, his fists on his hips, looking as if no force in the multiverse could push him aside, not even the towering Autobot leader.

“From what I understand about the humans, this situation is sensitive in a way violence is not,” Optimus said gravely. “If handled wrong, it may cause significant strife between our peoples. Please, give me just a few minutes to talk to Nurse Darby and Agent Fowler, and I will ask them to fill you in.”

What, beside violence, was sensitive around children? Jack gulped, and nodded. “Let’s give them ten, guys,” he said. “We can’t delay Agent Fowler. He needs to know how the army can help.”

***

Ultra Magnus had never felt more awkward.

“Kinsey’s skewed scales! The M.E.C.H. files we confiscated had anatomy bits.” Fowler vaguely waved his fingers. “But we assumed it was just for show, like some of your vehicle kibble.”

“Bill…” Nurse Darby paused. “Remember when Knock Out said that human interface disgusted him? He kept making dirty jokes too. I thought he just studied us, as a doctor.” She turned to Ratchet, as the one most qualified. “Is Cybertronian interface for reproduction?”

“No, no,” Ratchet replied. “Only some of Cybertron’s wildlife reproduces like organics. That used to make mechs doubt alien intelligence, but… Ahem.” Ratchet reset his vocalizer with a soft whirr. “In the biological sense, interface is for sharing data, energy, or essential fluids. The Allspark streams data from Cybertronians by quantum entanglement with sparks. When we build a new frame, its cybernucleic acid is assembled from past data of all compatible frames, and the spark - we don’t know that part too well, but sparks also carry data from the past. I always thought ‘ _Till all are one_ ’ meant that someday, the quantum links to the Allspark will be two-way and we will finally _understand_ …”

Optimus put a hand on the medic’s shoulder.

Ratchet wrapped up, “Anyway, think of interface as your computers in a network, not your animals passing on their DNA.” He narrowed his optics, as if about to talk to a stubborn patient. “Interface can also be a pleasure. Cybertronians are no less inventive than humans are when it comes to sex.”

Ultra Magnus felt the word ‘sex’ hit like an electric shock. He stood straighter, and noticed how Smokescreen decided to study the ceiling in detail, Wheeljack and Bulkhead exchanged grins, and Arcee froze. Even earlier, when Optimus Prime had shared details about Bumblebee and his stories, the Autobots didn’t talk about sex. Not directly. Wheeljack and Smokescreen had suggested the scout may not want to be rescued, because his stories must mean he wanted to be with Megatron. Others had argued; Ratchet had said they didn’t discuss interface enough.

The medic was right: it was a problem. The Autobots were being clumsy in front of their alien allies. They were wasting precious rescue time, forced to deal with interface-related issues they’d ignored earlier. Worse, the Decepticons knew of that weakness and could exploit it.

“You reproduce by the Allspark except for cloning, right?” Fowler asked. “That must be different.”

“Except for cloning,” Optimus confirmed. “Decepticon research crosses many lines.” He ex-vented. “As it is with humans, Cybertronian interface has significant implications. There are three things you need to know, as they relate to the current situation.”

Optimus spoke slowly, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to tell their human allies. Or was he struggling to say out loud the words he meant? “First, sex implies personal ties, implies intimacy. When they were linked, Megatron found a file where Bumblebee kept made-up stories, about himself and Megatron. To some, even media about sex with an enemy means treason. We want to assure you that Bumblebee’s collaboration with the Decepticons is extremely unlikely.”

Fowler and Darby nodded. Wheeljack and Smokescreen weren’t objecting as they had before; either they were convinced or unwilling to fight.

Optimus continued, “Second, the Decepticons are planning to make the Cybertronian presence widely known to humans. It might be a step in taking over your population. Agent Fowler, your colleagues need to know. Earlier, we thought they wanted to cyberform the Earth and extinguish organic life. Now it seems that they plan to subjugate. Megatron is almost certain to use sex media for propaganda - for attention, popularity, and distraction. On Cybertron, the Decepticons have been quite explicit in showing what they meant by their so-called ‘freedom of interface’. Their propaganda media may… feature Bumblebee, or his stories.”

The frowning agent scratched his chin. Ultra Magnus could relate. Slavery was more terrifying than death, and then, there was the issue of... sex. Ultra Magnus had just had the acute discomfort of discussing this messy nightmare with his superior officer. Did Optimus talk about sex and propaganda with the dignified Alpha Trion, in the mysterious light of the Matrix where the Prime commuted with his dead higher-ups?

Prime finished, “And third, as friends of Bumblebee, you have the right to know that he is probably being tortured, including forced interface.”

Nurse Darby gasped, and Fowler put an arm around her shoulders. “Optimus Prime, you should have told us about that part of your life earlier!” she accused. “We’ll need to explain interface to the children, before they learn from Megatron’s version on the Internet. How can we tell them about Cybertronian sexuality in the context of rape?”

Ultra Magnus hadn’t been constructed yesterday, and still found ‘the context of rape’ perfectly horrible. He tried not to let his mind deduce too many details, because the impact was too distracting. Even now he heard Fowler speak, but was unable to parse the words. Yet Ultra Magnus couldn’t stop his tactical analysis of what must be happening to Bumblebee. Probably hanging by his wrists in a manacle harness the Decepticons favored. One Autobot surrounded by jeering faces and cruel hands of many enemies. Equally helpless to escape an unwanted caress, shock prod, or hardline uplink for hacking. His most secret fantasies played out in perverted ways.

Ultra Magnus frowned. If Bumblebee’s stories fixated on his damaged neck, would they feature other trauma? Maybe that helpless feeling when other mechs made all the decisions and did what they would to him? The commander understood how that feeling might turn in on itself and become attractive. Would Bumblebee secretly desire to be helpless, maybe even arrange to play that out? That’s why details were important: they led to patterns!

Reluctantly, Ultra Magnus opened the scout’s file and ran a query, its search terms making him shudder. There were a couple of stories with Megatron restrained, as a _very_ enthusiastically collaborating prisoner. But there were no scenes with Bumblebee tied up, hurt, coerced, held, or otherwise helpless.

Ultra Magnus sent his finding to Optimus Prime.

***

Optimus postponed a comm from Ultra Magnus, because it was marked non-urgent. Probably strategy planning, judging by the commander’s distant look.

Optimus could only bow his head in agreement to Nurse Darby. The Autobots should have talked with the humans about interface earlier - and among themselves.

“Yes, Prime! Sherlock’s thickened plots - what do I keep telling you about sharing info?” Agent Fowler pressed. “You think sex stories can make Megatron popular? If he shares any of your tech toys before the Autobots do, many people will turn a blind eye to whatever he does to other aliens!”

Everybody began to talk at once. Despite leader protocols, Optimus was only able to catch pieces.

Ultra Magnus was telling Ratchet, “Doctor, please send me human relation files, so that I can analyze…”

Ratchet was cursing into space, “...frag him sideways with a rusty chainsaw, that Unicron-spawned war stupidity and…”

“...dunno about ‘extremely’ unlikely…” Smokescreen was loudly whispering to Bulkhead.

“...don’t you dare…” Arcee yelled at the impassive Wheeljack, looking like she was about to engage her blasters.

Optimus focused on the humans, because this was a debriefing for them.

“Want me to talk to the children, June?” Fowler looked reluctant, but continued. “Agents get training about… being forced. We can treat that as intern debriefing within Unit E.”

“Bill, they are too young to be your interns, let alone to have that training! No, better a medic and a mom than a soldier. Go talk to your political office.”

“I will do that,” he answered, and then turned to Optimus. “Think hard about sharing tech, Prime.”

Fowler left through the door to the front parking lot. He had thrown his helicopter into the line of fire to cover an Autobot retreat. He’d resisted Starscream’s torture and had risked his career arguing with his superiors on behalf of the Autobots. Optimus meant what he said: Fowler was Bumblebee’s friend, an adopted member of the Autobot family. Yet even now, he was doing his job as a special agent, pursuing his own government’s agenda.

“Does that - does forced interface happen a lot among you?” Darby asked, her voice suddenly carrying, because the other conversations had died down. “Many of you have been taken prisoner before. Does it mean?...”

Optimus was at a loss for words. Before the current crisis, he had thought rape had been his unique Pit. That it only happened because Megatron was unable to resist his memories when he’d met ‘Orion Pax’ once again. Optimus hadn’t told anyone but Ratchet - who stood silent, optics covered by his hand.

“Forced data exchange is common enough,” Optimus began. “There are different ways to hack a processor for information, such as the Cortical Psychic Patch. It doesn’t have to engage the emotional matrix or sensory net, though it can hurt…” He trailed off. _A hack doesn’t have to be sex_ , he was going to say, but realized he wasn’t answering Nurse Darby’s question.

“Eh, Screamer tried to make me overload” - Wheeljack shrugged. “I dialed down the interface protocols, and told him he’s not my type.”

Smokescreen laughed, but stopped when nobody else joined in.

“I am very sorry to hear that, Wheeljack,” Optimus said. He should have investigated much earlier. He should have asked that question as soon as he realized what might be happening to Bumblebee.

“Why haven’t you reported it?” Ultra Magnus asked, more an outcry of pain than a reprimand.

“Didn’t think it was a big deal. Just that thing the ‘Cons do, ain’t it? Make a mech overload to show who’s the boss. They ‘face one another all the time, like turbofoxes in heat. Don’t ask much for permission either, might not know how. That was my first escape. A Vehicon guard thought he’d get some. What he got was close enough for me to grab.” Wheeljack grinned.

He always enjoyed sharing his adventures, but this? Was it a relief to share?

Wheeljack continued, “Megs made fun of Starscream at Darkmount. Said, what sort of inept Decepticon can’t even make a tied-up prisoner come?”

Bulkhead was the only one not shocked into silence. Maybe the Wreckers talked about interface more? The warrior growled, “Did the slagging Buckethead try anything, Jackie?”

“Nah, he teased Screamer, but left the torture to him. Starscream gave up, just went for pain. Doc knows,” he nodded at Ratchet. “Had to replace my burned mesh where the suns don’t shine. It wouldn’t self-repair.”

“Wow,” Smokescreen whispered, crossing his legs. He looked revolted and yet impressed. “Nobody tried anything with me,” he said, optics focused on his feet. “Well, maybe Knock Out groped me a little. Megatron yelled at him to hurry up.” Smokescreen sighed with relief. “And then I escaped. Everything was done by drones on the prison ship. The pilots were an old flier trine, they kept to themselves. Do you think the ‘Cons forced Bumblebee, back at Tyger Pax? Is that why he’s making up these disgusting stories? That would just encourage Megatron, and it’s such a ‘Con thing to do, why…”

“Arcee, are you okay?” Nurse Darby said, and everybody turned to check.

Arcee wasn’t okay. She stood by the far wall, trembling, her optics dimmed and her hands clenching a piece of human machinery, now a useless lump of metal. Ratchet ran up to her, but stopped a step away. After being rescued from Airachnid, Arcee would lash out at any uninvited touch. She threw the lump she was holding into the pile of scrap, then grabbed Ratchet’s hand with both of hers. It must have hurt, but he didn’t wince.

“Shut up, Smokescreen,” Arcee said. She was hard to understand for static. “Don’t you dare go blaming Bee. I never reported about Tailgate and me either. I am only telling you for Bumblebee’s sake. I’ve never told anyone, because some would say it’s _no big deal_ ,” she thrust her thumb at Wheeljack, “or that we _encouraged_ Airachnid,” she pointed at Smokescreen, “or that it made us _disgusting_ , or that we should have turned our bodies off, or some such nonsense. I couldn’t stand to hear any of that. Not about Tailgate.”

She buried her face in Ratchet’s arm. He glared at everyone through a long silence. “Not all frame types can override their charge routines,” he finally said. “Jets and race cars cannot.”

Tailgate had been a race car. Optimus hoped nobody would ask about race motorcycles, Arcee’s type. He said, “I am sorry I have not been paying these matters enough attention. Arcee, I am so, so sorry.”

“Looks like you have a lot to discuss,” Nurse Darby said. She sounded eerily calm. “I will go talk to the children. In very general terms, and not much about violence. So don’t assume they know everything. Keep them out of it!” She caught the optics of the mechs one by one, her gaze lingering on Arcee’s trembling back, and then she left.

Optimus was still reeling from the implications of what he’d learned. For one, Darby and Fowler had been held by Knock Out a few weeks previously. From what the nurse had said, Knock Out had taunted them about interface, but thank Primus, nothing hinted that the Decepticons had attempted violations on any of the human members of the Autobot family. That did not bear thinking about.

Ultra Magnus must have felt even more disoriented than Optimus, because he said, “Keep Prowl out of it as well. He is still a juvenile!”

Ratchet muttered, “Cats aren’t sapient, commander,” but they didn’t restart that argument.

With other mechs’ optics now on him, Optimus realized it was his turn to speak of his time on the Nemesis.

***

Jack noticed that through the whole short lecture she gave, his mother looked detached, as if handling a dangerous medical case.

“The robots can? Anyone with anyone? And they make stories about it? Cool!” Miko exclaimed. “Do you think they have rule thirty-four? Who is Bulk with - Wheeljack? But wait, Jackie’s been spending lots of time with Ultra Magnus, and they have the _tension._ Ooh, interesting!”

“Miko, hush,” Jack said, glancing at Raf. Was she trying to prove her knowledge on the topic?

“It’s okay, Jack,” Raf said. “I spend a lot of time on the Internet. But what does it have to do with Bee?” At least Raf wasn’t sobbing any more every time he said his friend’s name.

June said, “Raf, on the Internet, have you ever seen how politicians use sex scandals against one another?” He nodded, and she continued. “That’s what Megatron will try to do against the Autobots, using Bumblebee’s stories.”

While Raf was thinking that over, Jack caught his mother’s glance, a silent message just for him - ‘ _More later_ ’ _._ Both knew the other wasn’t asking and telling everything in front of the others.

Raf said, “Is that why Optimus says Megatron will keep Bee alive? So he’s around for the scandal about the stories?”

“Very good, Raf. The Autobots will rescue Bumblebee soon. They’ll need your computer skills.”

The hangar opened. “I’ll ask Ratchet how I can help,” Raf decided, and ran there.

The Autobots came out into the wide drive-through corridor that led to their individual garages. Optimus walked out with Ultra Magnus, reading a datapad together; Ratchet followed with Arcee, and the other three lingered behind. All mechs looked grim and shaken, Jack thought, but Arcee... Last he’d seen her like that was when Airachnid’s ship had landed in the woods. She transformed, the Autobot sign for _Do not disturb_ , and sped away.

Ultra Magnus cried after her, “Stay on the base! We are on high alert!” Then he looked around and said, “Wheeljack, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen - you don’t seem busy, so you can relieve the humans on patrol.”

June waited for Raf, while Jack and Miko headed to their place. The building had a barrack-style room, where they occupied bunk beds in the corner and put down a box with a towel for Prowl the kitten.

As soon as Raf was out of earshot, Miko said, “Ooh, Ratchet. I think he’s with the Prime! You know how Optimus always calls him _old friend_?” She grinned.

“Miko, would you just pause with ‘ooh’ for a moment and think?” Jack said, stopping in the corridor. “Don’t you see the Autobots are worried sick about Bumblebee?”

“Well duh, and I’m worried too!” she retorted. “But Bee’s very tough and brave, right? He knows how to deal with torture. The ‘Cons aren’t gonna kill him, and we’ll rescue him soon. Who cares about some stories? Though I wouldn’t mind reading them!”

Jack wondered if he should tell her or let it go. Let Miko talk like a _tough and brave_ Wrecker she wanted to be, and think about the Autobot romance - not about the things she might not be ready to handle. But there was tough, and then there was cruel. Friends didn’t let friends be cruel. He recalled how upset Bee had been over Smokescreen’s too-easy words, ‘ _You own that voicebox Ratchet slapped in your throat!_ ’ What if Miko talked that way to Bee when he came back?

Jack said, “Maybe it’s not just stories. The Autobots wouldn’t be that upset if it were just stories. You keep asking who spends time with whom. Bee is spending time with Megatron!”

“But Bee would never want to… _interface_ with Megatron, or any ‘Con. Whatever stories he writes. Not in a million years! He’ll tell old Megs where to stick it, he…”

Miko glanced at Jack. She fell silent, and maybe even thought for a moment, as he’d asked her to do - because she suddenly looked as chilled as he felt. She covered her mouth with both hands and whispered, “The ‘Cons don’t care what Bee wants, do they?”

Jack shook his head.

### All Kinds of Messed Up

“This is boring as all slag,” Wheeljack said. He transformed under a gas station awning at the edge of the base, and stretched his arms. “Useless, too. Three-mech patrols against random clone recons? Pshhh.”

The other two mechs transformed as well, and Bulkhead replied, “Jackie, the attack on Bee wasn’t random. Optimus said a human told the ‘Cons.”

“And Fowler hasn’t found the leak yet, so it can happen again,” said Smokescreen.

The rookie had a knack for stating the obvious. Except this time, what seemed obvious was wrong, Wheeljack thought.

Smokescreen continued, “High alert, alt-only without a cover, travel in groups of three or more outside of the base, and Optimus said…”

“Optimus said a lot of things tonight,” Wheeljack interrupted. “I knew he and Megs had been clanking, back before the war. But now?”

Smokescreen looked like Unicron had suddenly appeared. Bulkhead grit his denta and said nothing.

Wheeljack continued, “Magnus said earlier it’s possible Bee’s involved in the leak. Yes, Bulk, dontcha pout at me. Not likely, but possible, yeah? Doesn’t mean ‘Con grunts won’t beat the scrap outta him just cause he’s chasing the frag of his dreams with Buckethead.”

“No, Jackie, no. Bee’s the best scout there is, he wouldn’t!” Bulkhead said.

He took a small utility knife from his subspace and started to scratch the painted metal column of the awning. Just like old times. Just that thing Bulk did, crude little pictures. The doodles used to make the Wreckers laugh and groan, though Wheeljack didn’t expect anything funny this time.

“All bets are off around ‘facing,” he pressed. “You think you know a mech, then wham!”

Bulkhead always looked cute when he tried to think. He said, “I gotta say them stories are something else. Didja see the one with the weightless room, the giant blob of engex, and the vibro-rings?”

Smokescreen nodded, then coughed to cover his vents kicking up a notch. Bulkhead lightly patted him on the back, making him stumble and almost fall, then continued, “I’ve always known Bee’s smart, but how does he come up with all that stuff?” Bulkhead spread his hands. “He’s never even ‘faced for real. Must’ve scouted out the details.”

“How’d ya know, Bulk?” Wheeljack asked.

“He told me once. Bee sits with me at breakfasts and talks, cause I’m too sleepy to interrupt, like everyone else does. Doc says Bee used to talk a lot before that.” He pointed at his neck.

Wheeljack said, “How he comes up with stuff? He dreams and he broods. I know the type, Bulk. A quiet mech, thinks a lot, can’t take a joke” - Bulkhead nodded at each item Wheeljack listed. “Has to jerk off if there’s no battle or race, cause that’s how his frame works. But can’t get his charge all the way up without some fancy slag.”

Bulkhead paused, then nodded once again. Smokescreen kept looking away, the poor rookie - so different from his usual chatterbox self.

Wheeljack said, “Spec ops don’t have friend-foe protocols like us soldiers. You think of fragging a ‘Con, you’d throw up. But if one’s trained for infiltration...”

Bulkhead insisted, “He’d never betray the Autobots!”

“Yes, Bee’s a hero,” Smokescreen said. He sounded more sad than convinced.

“Doesn’t stop a death wish,” Wheeljack said.

There was a pause, then Bulkhead shook his head. “You lost me.”

“A _hero_ would die for his cause, yeah. But if he thinks _the cause_ is dying, all his friends are about to die - and he’s helpless to change any of that, then who knows what he’d do before the end. Because nothing matters anymore.” Wheeljack had seen it before. A major battle lost, everyone too busy with retreat to notice a darkly brooding mech, then, some cycles later… Wham. “Megatron will pick up the pieces. He’ll promise any slag - say, spare the Earth or our execution if only Bee is _reasonable_. A desperate mech clings to any hope. Bee may even think he’s doing that _hero_ thing, saving us and the humans.”

Both listeners frowned and nodded at that. Wheeljack wanted mechs to be captivated when he told a tale. He was good at it, he thought. He’d take the confusing chaos of blaster fire, running mechs, and frantic yells by comm - and turn it into a grand story of a battle, with its purpose, meaning, and juicy details. Everybody loved bright details, even the Wreckers who saw the same battle first-hand. Even if they saw something slightly different happen. Even if they knew slagging well that no soldier could possibly spare attention to facial expressions of both combatants’ teams, the smell of incendiary bombs, and the way rotary blades strobed against the alien sunrise. In a real fight, it was hard enough to track your opponents’ two hands at once!

As much as his tale made perfect sense, a part of Wheeljack hoped that Bulkhead or Smokescreen would turn it around. They could recall something contrary about the scout, or argue with the details Wheeljack filled between what little he knew. But no, there were no sounds other than the quiet scratch of Bulkhead’s knife.

Wheeljack continued, “So, Bee will cooperate enough, and Megs will take Bee to his berth, why not? ‘Cons are easy about fragging. It won’t be as… fancy or fun as the stories, but an overload’s an overload. Buckethead’s tall, dark, and handsome - slag, I’d hit that, if he weren’t a piece of murdering ‘Con scrap.” Wheeljack thought of Ultra Magnus’ shapely hips and towering shoulders, just to replace the enemy’s image. “They might even be at it now.” He checked his chrono for Cybertronian Standard. “Yeah, it’s the end of the ‘Con work shift, time for some high-grade and a frag. The ‘Cons may even have an antigrav room on the Nemesis,” he added just for Bulkhead, who made a squeaky little yelp as if he saw a scraplet. “And here we are, patrolling at night on short rations, because the Prime’s a big softie only seeing the best in every mech.”

“We should do something!” Smokescreen exclaimed. “Talk to someone, tell Optimus how things are!”

“Smokey, he won’t listen. Primes are stubborn!” Bulkhead shook his head. “And mind Arcee. Don’t you go upsetting her! Still, we should get Bee outta there. It’s all kinds of messed up.”

“Of course we’ll get Bee! He’ll come about, see reason. Prime will see what’s what soon, everyone will,” Wheeljack said. “Wanna bet that with Bee gone, we won’t have any more sudden attacks?”

They didn’t.

“Optimus said he called Megatron. How does that even work?” Smokescreen asked.

“Just a low-sec comm,” Bulkhead replied. “When Screamer was on the run, he called our general channel every time he got a scratch. Must be the same kind of channel as our officers use to call the ‘Cons.” Officers probably reminded him of the orders, because he added, “We should go patrol.”

Bulkhead transformed, Wheeljack following. In his rear-view sensor masked as a mirror, Smokescreen stood thoughtful, staring at Bulkhead’s doodle. He nodded, transformed, and sped after the Wreckers.

### Keep Your Enemies Closer

Optimus thanked Ratchet for lending his medbay and his console, then watched the door close and lock behind the medic. Optimus didn’t want others to see his reactions. He did a quick venting exercise for calm, then pressed the button.

“Megatron,” he acknowledged the call, the wicked grin, the inevitable pain - and then went on with what must be done. “Let us negotiate Bumblebee’s release.”

“Release, so soon? The scout has just began to enjoy our hospitality! It’s a _pleasure_ having Autobots around. Your stay was too short, if intense. So _memorable_ , at least for one of us.”

Optimus felt as if his spark was collapsing into a black hole. He knew he didn’t show his disgust; knew that Megatron sensed it anyway. “Name your terms for the prisoner’s release,” he said flatly.

“Prisoner? What are you talking about, Prime? The newly appointed Autobot representative in the two-planet government I am forming? He is staying where he belongs - by my side. You have seen the file, so you know how Bumblebee really feels.”

Prisoner. Representative. Government. Feelings. It was futile to argue abstractions with Megatron: he would spout more twisted propaganda in a style he fancied poetic, and Optimus would get nowhere. _Facts and actions!_ Optimus said, “You imply Bumblebee chose to join the Decepticons. Why now? He’s had the file for a long time, but never took the opportunity. Why send us the alarm signal when the Seekers came for him?”

Megatron answered a question with a question, one of his favorite tactics. “Why could not this be a special operations pretend-play, complete with a chase, capture, and interrogation? I hope by now you appreciate how _inventive_ my little scout is with scenarios. Wouldn’t you love to play some out - maybe that one with the ideal hyperelastic mod?”

Optimus didn’t wince. _Ignore imagery; focus on facts_. “Megatron, there is not a single story in that file where Bumblebee is the target of any violence, pretend or otherwise.”

Megatron’s grin wavered and his optics flickered dimmer in disappointment: his trap failed. Optimus silently thanked Ultra Magnus for that piece of analysis. The warlord would outright lie if it served him. Yet his favorite game was to arrange pieces of truth, implications, and suppositions - and then to watch his opponents misleading themselves.

“As for timing, you must have seen what despair does to mechs, Prime: processor-washing to rival Shadowplay.” Megatron’s voice wasn’t lewd anymore, but businesslike - a switch in tactics. “You Autobots have lost Cybertron, your base, your space bridge, most relics. Do you have even a single medkit between you? To the rest of our race, you are war criminals. You ruined the Omega Lock, the only hope to restore our planet. What can you losers offer a young ambitious mech? Not even a publisher for his stories that your poisonous culture forced him to keep secret!”

 _The only thing poisonous is your deceit_ , Optimus didn’t say. Megatron made his deceits sound _realistic_. Too often, the resourceful warlord arranged for them to _become_ full reality. Post-factum, very few mechs cared which came first, Megatron’s story or the events it described. Optimus wondered if Megatron himself could tell between the reality and his words. To convince others, he had to behave as if he believed what he said. That processor-washing must work both ways.

If the Decepticons won, history would read the way Megatron talked. Optimus could not let that happen.

Megatron was not about to negotiate for Bumblebee’s release. What could be done for the scout until the Autobots mounted a rescue? Optimus had to address Megatron’s words before trying anything else, or the warlord won’t bulge from his topic. He was stubborn about what he called ‘acknowledgement’ and ‘validation’.

Optimus said, knowing it was long shot, “I appreciate Bumblebee’s feelings, and he is free to act as he sees fit. Nevertheless, may I talk to him directly?”

“No can do, Prime. He is still not awake, after a busy night.” This time Optimus winced, and Megatron nodded to acknowledge. “Do not worry, Prime! I am not calling to share what color lightning comes out when the scout overloads. Keep your Autobotish sensibilities. No, I want to negotiate a ceasefire for a few cycles. We are planning the Festival of the Two. Oh, do not act so surprised. The war is almost over. Time for fun and games. Take a few days off your pathetic futile fighting and do something constructive. Might I suggest group readings of Bumblebee’s stories?”

They continued to negotiate, but a ceasefire hasn’t happened in a long while, and they must have forgotten how. Megatron growled in frustration and dropped the call mid-sentence.

Optimus didn’t know what was worse - to pass on Megatron’s poison, or to hide the conversation from the Autobots. He gave himself a klik to find a third way, and then asked Ratchet and Ultra Magnus to join him.

“I talked with Megatron,” he announced. “Here is my analysis of what he said. Bumblebee is alive, and execution is still unlikely. Megatron’s long-range plans seem to require Bumblebee’s cooperation, as a figurehead. It is not clear how the Decepticons plan to achieve that. Megatron mentioned processor-washing, psychological and direct. We might find Bumblebee tortured, in stasis, drugged, or hacked. But he is yet unbroken, because Megatron refuses to show him to me.”

They asked questions, discussed plans. Ultra Magnus wanted to estimate how long Bumblebee could resist, and to what degree he would cooperate in order to cope. Toward that end, the commander grilled Optimus about the scout’s morale and Ratchet about his health.

“Why do you need to know if Bumblebee’s t-cog surgery is still healing - what good are all your estimates, Magnus?” Ratchet said with obvious effort; his patient-privacy routines must hurt. “You assume the kid will cooperate some. You do too, Optimus. What if you are wrong? He told me he wouldn’t speak at all at Tyger Pax, or play along any ‘Con games. That made Megatron mad enough to offline a prisoner before getting intel. The slagger knows how to keep mechs alive under torture, but what if that happens again? We must get Bumblebee out, now!”

Optimus tried to comfort his old friend. Was it dishonest to protect others from Megatron’s deceit? Optimus wondered, and doubted, and did his best to share facts exactly as he saw them.

One of the starkest facts was how few resources they had to help their scout, as refugees from a bombed-out home on an alien planet.

### Hook, Line, and Sinker

Megatron led Bumblebee into the shuttle and stopped between the cargo hold full of clones and the pilot’s cabin. He said, “You can ride here with the troops or in the cabin with myself and Soundwave. I’ll shackle you to something in any case. Shuttles are delicate, and you’ve been quite _frisky_ with Knock Out.”

The scout winced, and his EM field gave a cute little flare of ire. Then he cycled his vents and slowly looked around, making a show of how he compared the options. Megatron approved of the discipline and cooperation he saw. Yet that field felt unbalanced.

::Let me guess. I’ll have to sit on your lap if I choose the cabin,:: Bumblebee said, seeing only two chairs there.

Megatron laughed, joked for the clones, and caught an embarrassed EM burst from the scout, but something felt off. Bumblebee was too smart to give such easy openings, too well-trained to leave his field that unguarded. Earlier in his quarters, he just fell down - where was his famous agility?

The scout chose the cabin, of course. Megatron shackled and strapped him tight into the spare chair. He was looking forward to a quiet breem before the flight. He would offer to make Bumblebee _comfortable_ (and enjoy the predictable EM flare), talk about the games, and try to find out what was wrong with the scout’s systems.

Soundwave called, the signal routed to Megatron through the shuttle’s comm. **Transmission: incoming. Source code: Autobot medic Ratchet. Mech on the line: Smokescreen.**

Megatron walked out, pulling up Smokescreen’s file and shuttle surveillance on his HUD. The scout would have to wait, though the clones were sure to provide him sufficient… distraction.

“Put the call through to the nearest console,” Megatron ordered as he passed Soundwave.

Smokescreen, the unsubtle but sneaky new recruit, calling with an officer’s code? Interesting. Megatron prepared a couple of opening baits.

***

Ratchet was out patrolling, the locked garage-turned-medbay lit and empty. Too empty. Should something happen, they had almost no tools or supplies. Just the few bare necessities Ratchet had carried in his subspace when they’d evacuated the old base, what little they’d found in that abandoned ‘Con ship, and what the humans had donated. Ultra Magnus and Wheeljack had hauled in a berth and a console out of the _Iron Will_ , Jackie making puns about the ship’s name all the way, and that was that.

Smokescreen stepped out of the wall, then turned his phase shifter off and the console on. Most of the console was locked with medical stuff, but a part of the comm unit was unprotected. Just like that, it had ‘The Decepticons’ in the list of recipients. Smokescreen touched the glyphs, waited on hold for a couple of kliks, and then - just like that - there was Megatron, looking at him with mild interest. Smokescreen was so surprised that he lost the path to the file with what he’d planned to say.

“Greetings, soldier,” Megatron said. When no answer came, he peered at Smokescreen and asked, “Do you have an agenda for this call, or did you hit the wrong button?”

“It’s about Bumblebee!” Smokescreen finally blurted. Too loud! He glanced at the door, then cursed himself for fidgeting.

“Ah, my new government representative. What about him? I already answered Prime’s questions about the scout.”

Smokescreen stared. “Representative, really? Bee’s moving up in the world. Still a scout, though - no military promotion?”

This was insane, he thought, discussing Bumblebee’s new Decepticon career with Megatron. Optimus Prime told such a different story. A vague one, just that the Decepticons were using Bee. Optimus must have his reasons not to share details, but...

Megatron interrupted his thoughts. “Curious you should ask, _soldier_. This is going to be a surprise for my little scout, and I will miss calling him that” - the warlord grinned - “but I can tell you now. Any trooper who does well in our upcoming festival game will make a lieutenant. I am sure Bumblebee is going to do a splendid job.”

Game festival? Lieutenant?! Smokescreen just now remembered to be suspicious. “How do I know you aren’t lying? Put me through to Bumblebee! I just want to look him in the optics and check if what you say is true, and if not…”

“Let me see.” Megatron paused, probably talking to Bee by comm. “Wouldn’t that be awkward?” he finally inquired.

“What, he doesn’t even want to talk to me?!”

“Bumblebee has a new life here, soldier. He’s on a shuttle right now, all packed up and ready to go - Luna One, then the games on Cybertron. I should be going too. Starscream said humans have an oddly fitting idiom about such trips - ‘bee-sweetened-luna’.”

Megatron said the phrase in English next, and Smokescreen parsed the meaning. His disgust must have shown, because Megatron gave a heavy sigh. “I know cross-faction relationships will be hard to accept for a while after the war. Still, we have to make an effort to move on! Besides, Bumblebee and I fit together so well. Care to see?”

Smokescreen recoiled from the screen and lifted his hands palms out, as if that would push the upcoming media away.

Megatron chuckled. “You Autobots and your oppressive hang-ups! All right, nothing explicit then.”

An image appeared in an overlay: a static portrait, heads and shoulders. Bumblebee was closer to the camera, Megatron behind. Bee looked fine, not a scratch on him - freshly buffed to a high shine, in fact. Torture, Optimus said. Despair, Wheeljack said. Yeah, right!

Smokescreen had never seen or imagined a relaxed Megatron. He looked domestic: leaning on the back of his chair, hands behind his head, lips parted, smiling and talking. Bee’s optics were intently focused on Megatron’s face, as if he was hanging onto every word.

Smokescreen frowned, converting sizes and angles from their two-dimensional projection. “Is Bee sitting on your lap?” he whispered.

Megatron nodded, beaming. “Do you have lovers, young soldier?” he asked.

Smokescreen shook his head. Slag! Why had he answered?

Megatron said, “Oh, that must be sad. At least with the war over, your pool of candidates will grow. I need to be going. Want to leave Bumblebee a message?”

Did he want to give the little traitor a piece of his mind, or never talk to Bumblebee again? Both! “Yeah, I’ll record for him.” Smokescreen reset his vocalizer and hit the capture button. His face hardened just thinking of the scout. “I thought you were a hero, Bumblebee. I thought you were my friend. I was wrong. How could you join the ‘Cons? How can you just hop into berth with Megatron, after all he has done?” He almost said they’d get Bee back anyway, but stopped himself in time. Megatron - and Bee now, too - didn’t need to hear about Autobot military plans. Instead, he finished, “Your stories are ugly and your acts are worse. Your loss. You’ll be on the wrong side when the Autobots win.” He thought for a moment, then attached Bulkhead’s doodle he’d saved from their patrol, with stick-figure Megatron taking stick-figure Bumblebee from behind, crossed-out and captioned ‘No!’

Smokescreen applied the public half of his authentication key to the file and sent it on - the old key, matching the secret half Bee still had. They had changed all the passwords by now. Smokescreen said, “You are not going to pass this on and upset your _lover_ , are you?”

“It will be difficult for Bumblebee,” Megatron admitted. “Yet he has the right to know how his former friends really feel. Goodbye, soldier.”

The call ended. Smokescreen stared at the console, feeling lonely and lost. A pop-up asked him if he wanted to save the recording. He plugged his wrist cable into the console, saved the call to his memory banks, and deleted that piece of the comm system’s history. He left through the door, and forgot to lock it.

Back in his garage, Smokescreen transformed into his alt form to recharge, because they had no berths. He didn’t know what to do, what to think, or who to tell. In a breem of fidgeting on his axles, he was forced to face the simple truth Wheeljack had spoken: ‘ _Has to jerk off if there’s no battle or race, cause that’s how his frame works_.’ Smokescreen transformed, checked that the door is locked, and sat by a wall. He pulled out a cable from his right wrist, plugged it into the main port behind his helm, and then leaned his helm on his arm to cover the link-up. Arranged thus, he began to pulse the charge through the loop, feeling the wave grow with each pass, the gentle familiar tingle…

Usually Smokescreen didn’t think while taking care of his charge, but dwelled in the quiet dim world of his sensory net. Yet it suddenly hit him that he just spoke with Megatron - spoke with Megatron about sex - about Megatron’s new lover and his own lack of any. So _unfair_ for the traitor Bumblebee to have it all: a lover, a rank, an important job! Real berth too, because Smokescreen had seen real Cybertronian furniture while sneaking around the Nemesis. Not that he would want any of that, of course, not with Megatron! How revolting would it be if the other end of his cable was plugged into Megatron’s stupid bucket helm instead of his own?

Very revolting all right, because his friend-foe routines still functioned, unlike some mechs he knew! Yet the next wave through his charge loop came amped up a magnitude. Huh, that wasn’t how the foe-ID was supposed to work. He’d assumed he would have been stronger in Arcee and Tailgate’s place, but...

Hastily, he deleted the image of himself with Megatron, but his mind supplied another role. That one didn’t even trigger battle routines. He wasn’t _with_ Megatron, _he was Megatron_. The ruler of a faction, any minion his to command as a soldier or a lover. Troops defecting from the other side chasing his sex appeal, Bumblebee looking at him as _intensely_ as in that portrait… Smokescreen arched up in a whole-body seizure, and fell to the floor amidst a blue lightning storm. That was loud, bright, and mortifying - not at all like his usual modest release of energy. Smokescreen lay on the floor panting, light smoke coming out of his vents, certain he’d just woke up the whole base and all the nearby human towns.

But no overload police came to arrest him, and he passed out into recharge.

***

Megatron saved Smokescreen’s message to his memory banks and on a chip. That had gone well.

The deck was empty, except for Soundwave waiting by the shuttle. Laserbeak perched on his arm. Megatron paused to comm Knock Out and Starscream. **Fit ST-3V3 with a spark shield before his thirty-two strokes,** he ordered. **I want him alive.**

He should have pardoned the clone earlier, when he could still do so without looking indecisive. Yes, there was a rule, but he had the power to make exceptions, and he’d had Starscream promise ST leniency for his help in the scene. But the scout wouldn’t cooperate, which made Megatron angry enough for Dark Energon to engage, and that was that for him thinking straight.

Well, the clone should be happy enough if it’s nothing permanent. Megatron could have just shot him.

Starscream only said, **Yes, master.** He was still sweet and meek from their recent whip play.

Knock Out replied, **The clone will still offline from pain shock as likely as not, my liege.**

Probably trying to wiggle out of doing any work, Megatron thought, and snarled, **Then inject energon thinners, plug in a circuit speeder, and supervise in person so that Starscream takes breaks! Why do I have to spell out the basics, doctor?**

He ended the call and gestured for Soundwave to follow him into the shuttle. Laserbeak took flight. The shuttle’s loading ramp lifted up and closed after they entered.

### Soldier, Miner, Traitor

It was the second morning at the Autobots’ new base, and they still had no leads on getting Bumblebee back. They had decided to target known energon mines, because the enemy ground infrastructure was more vulnerable than the Nemesis. Once the Nemesis came to a mine to pick up fuel, it briefly uncloaked, giving the Autobots a slim chance. More a dream than a plan, with too many unknowns. Would they arrive in time? Could they survive, vastly outnumbered, until the human military arrived? Could they disable the engine and the cloaking device? Would the Decepticons kill Bumblebee if a rescue was about to succeed?

That’s why the Autobots waited, gathering intel. Smokescreen ground-bridged into solid rock while wearing his phase shifter. So far, he planted hardline bugs into the comm and surveillance systems of three mines. The Wreckers were searching for more. Ultra Magnus suggested they capture some mine guards, but those were unlikely to know anything of value.

Just before sunrise, Ratchet drove home from a patrol, and there was Raf, already working. Usually the juvenile humans recharged later than this hour, as was proper for their stage of development. That tidbit came with the other xenobiology info Ratchet had studied after he’d found himself helpless to heal Raf’s Dark Energon poisoning.

“Ratchet, look what I found!” Raf called.

In the absence of Bumblebee, Raf attached himself to the medic. Ratchet looked at the nest of wires and screens woven around the big ground bridge console and grumbled, “Do I see my computer in your rig? I need that!” It irked him: he must have forgotten to lock the medbay, and nobody asked.

“Sorry. Wheeljack and I can put it back. You just disconnect these…”

“No, no, keep it if you need it. Just show me.”

“In the third mine,” Raf pointed at a window on the screen, streaming visuals from a Decepticon surveillance camera. “Here, look at these two.”

“Vehicon soldiers, not laborers,” Ratchet nodded. “But digging ore instead of guarding? Might be a punishment detail.”

“See the one with wheels?” Raf hit a few keys on his laptop, also wired into the rig, and the camera zoomed in. “What are these spots all over?”

“Shock prod marks. I’ve treated enough such wounds before, whenever…” Ratchet stopped, but too late. Raf had always been a fast thinker. The medic noted quick uneven venting: Raf’s acute distress was back again. He put his hand down by Raf, who tucked his face into it, sobbing. Ratchet said, “Bumblebee will manage, I am sure. Raf, are these Vehicons mine guards, or were they sent from the Nemesis?”

Work was the best distraction. Raf got to it, pulling up data from the mine’s computers. These were fresh arrivals. Ratchet called Ultra Magnus and Optimus with the news.

***

Ratchet closed the hangar door as Ultra Magnus and Arcee drove in. Every mech was assembled, the humans taking up the patrol duty again.

“Come here, Spotty.” Wheeljack dragged a scuffed, shackled Vehicon out of Ultra Magnus’ trailer by one shoulder wheel, and dropped him face down on the hangar’s floor. The Vehicon’s biolights were dim, and he wasn’t moving.

Ratchet scanned the unconscious clone; his internals were surprisingly intact for that many fresh burns. He was low on fuel, but medical help could wait.

Ultra Magnus transformed and reported to Optimus, “Operation successful, sir. No casualties, one prisoner. We also brought a load of processed energon from the mine.”

Bulkhead cheered.

“Blew up the rest,” Wheeljack nodded. “Too bad Miko couldn’t see. Wake the ‘Con up, doc. Didn’t get to chat.”

Aborting stasis wasn’t healthy in the long run. Neither were any number of things the Decepticons were probably doing to Bumblebee right now. Ratchet sat on the floor and plugged into the clone. Two burst transfers of energy, then a low-key alarm signal. He repeated the standard pattern until the clone began to stir, then yanked his cable out and stood up.

The clone rebooted, turned over onto his back, and onlined his visor. Seven Autobots were looking down at him. He curled up on his side, drew up his knees and tucked his head behind his arms, trembling and whispering, “Please, please, please...”

Optimus Prime said, “If you cooperate, you will not be hurt.”

“Like my buddy BR?” the clone rasped, then shook all over as if terrified by his own words, curled up even tighter, and fell silent.

“Ultra Magnus, please explain,” Optimus said.

“Sir, the other prisoner started a fight in the trailer en route from the mine to _Iron Will_. Wheeljack shot him and subdued this one.”

The clone peeked from behind his arms at Optimus and spoke fast, as if desperate to get as many words out as he could before whatever he was expecting started. “He was just trying to stretch. His wings fragging hurt from that clamp. He’s always funny about them wings. I can’t even pet them without him squealing.”

The Autobots just stared at the clone, looking as flabbergasted as Ratchet felt.

Wheeljack said, “Whatever. One’s enough for questions. Speaking of, I got some.”

The clone blurted, “You’re just like Commander Starscream!” with such venom that Ratchet recoiled.

“What did you say, slagger?” Wheeljack growled, his fists clenching.

“Wheeljack,” Optimus Prime said. “Please show me that wing clamp.”

The Wrecker grumbled, “Slag all I could see in that cramped trailer,” and took the device out of his subspace.

Optimus briefly examined it, dropped it on the floor away from the clone, and then shot it. Ratchet startled; he was still getting used to the new Optimus, changed by his Darkmount ordeal.

Every optic (and one red visor) watched the puddle cool from incandescent white to molten red to gray. Ultra Magnus was the first to move: he came up to Wheeljack and put a hand on his shoulder, in support and warning both, Ratchet thought.

And then Raf ran up to the Decepticon from behind the pile of scrap in the corner, and cried, in passable Neocybex, “Is Bee alive?”

“Who?” the clone said.

“Answer the question!” Arcee, Wheeljack, and Bulkhead snapped in unison, Bulkhead transforming his mace out for a moment. Automatically, they spoke English, because a human friend was in the room.

“Wait,” Ratchet said. He whisked Raf out of the enemy’s reach, and explained in Neocybex, “Autobot scout Bumblebee, a small car-former, black frame with yellow accents, taken prisoner by the Seekers two and a half cycles ago.”

“Oh, him.”

Ratchet thought he heard that bitter venom again, but suppressed.

“He was fine last I’ve seen.”

Ratchet ex-vented - the whole room did, and Raf sagged to his knees in relief - but the clone continued, “Repaired and shiny as can be, strolling around with Lord Megatron.”

Optimus took a sharp deep vent and dimmed his optics.

Smokescreen repeated, “Shiny,” caught Wheeljack’s nod, opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, but stayed silent.

Arcee asked, “Repaired? From what?”

The clone probably felt a little braver from Optimus’ gesture (and nobody hurting him for a while). He pushed himself up to his knees, then said, “If I tell you everything about your scout, can I join your side?” He didn’t sound too hopeful.

Wheeljack huffed, “That’s not how defections work, ‘Con.”

Ultra Magnus said, “Prime, permission to debrief the prisoner in a less crowded room?” And added, louder over the protests of the Autobots, “I will stream to everyone, and take your questions.”

***

Arcee moved the tools off the top of a sturdy metal shelf by the wall, while Ratchet went for his console.

Optimus said, “Ultra Magnus will stream, one-way. I will text him your questions. Please do not distract the commander with multiple channels.”

It took the aliens some time to sort themselves out, but they didn’t argue: they must have reached an understanding earlier. Fowler called the commissary for more computer supplies. Raf would go there with June; Fowler had issued him a soldier’s radio and promised to call right away with any news on Bumblebee. June took the young cat from Jack to humor Ultra Magnus, but didn’t insist that the older children leave. Bulkhead put Miko up on his shoulder, and Jack sat on Arcee’s foot, his back comfortable on her concave leg.

While the aliens were settling, the screen lit with the view from Ultra Magnus’ optics. One hand pushed a button to close the door; the other held the Vehicon by his shoulder-wheel. Ultra Magnus led the prisoner to the middle of the room and said, “Stay here.” The view dunked, then lifted again. “No, stand, don’t kneel.”

Arcee translated into English. The scene zoomed out when Ultra Magnus stepped back, and steadied, other than the minute motions of his living frame - venting, nodding, moving his optics.

Ultra Magnus said, “What is your designation and rank?”

“ST-3v3, trooper,” the clone replied.

“Why is he rasping? Did you damage his vocalizer, Wheeljack?” Ratchet asked.

“Would serve him right, but no,” Wheeljack said.

Meanwhile, the clone added, “They call me Steve.”

By the door, Raf laughed. The little human hadn’t even smiled since Bumblebee’s capture.

Arcee translated, and then Optimus commented, “The name is a visual pun that links Neocybex glyphs, their English transliteration, and a common English name.”

Miko said, “Wow Raf, you got all that? You are so clever! Now go, soldier, we need your leet hackz.”

Raf and Nurse Darby left.

Bulkhead grumbled, “Clones have names, huh? And make jokes I don’t get?”

Ultra Magnus said, in that language, “Do you speak English?” The clone… Steve nodded, and the commander continued, “Bumblebee or Bee is what we call our missing scout in English. You said Bumblebee is walking around with Megatron, in good repair. Do you mean that he isn’t a prisoner, and is free to move around the Nemesis?”

Smokescreen nodded, “What I thought! Listen, I…”

Arcee glared at him, and he trailed off. She was about to defend Bumblebee, but before she could figure out how, Steve replied, “Free? Slag no! Megatron always has him on that leash thing when they’re around.” He curled his fingers, as if holding something about as thick as Arcee’s wrist. “I had a shift guarding the little… your scout. He gets two teams of guards, and Lord Megatron is watching the feeds more often than not. That’s how this happened.” He looked down at his spotted armor.

“But wait, that’s not…” Smokescreen began.

Wheeljack interrupted, “Ask the slagger what he did to Bee that made Buckethead mad.”

Bulkhead said, “‘Con guards!” and patted Wheeljack on his shoulder with two loud clangs.

Optimus must have sent on the question, because Ultra Magnus said, “Has Megatron caught you doing something inappropriate to the prisoner?”

“Just a little joke, is all,” the clone muttered. He tilted his head, probably trying to gauge his interrogator’s reaction.

Arcee knew Ultra Magnus could keep his face about as expressive as the face of a cliff. She tried to tell herself that a severe punishment didn’t necessarily mean Bee had been badly abused. Could be the opposite, a guard going too easy on the prisoner, could be anything - who’d predict the chaos-spawned mind of Megatron?

The clone continued, “Me and Brian, BR-14n that is, the flier you slagged... Well, there we are, stuck with the night shift. Guarding the corridors, watching the feeds. And there is that fragging… Erm, what do we see? An Autobot with officer quarters to himself, Mark Five berth, private energon dispenser” - the clone counted on his fingers.

“What’s a Mark Five berth?” Miko asked, but no-one replied.

This was bizarre, not like anything Arcee could imagine - or any of them, apparently. What was Bee’s story? A prisoner, but - pampered, a caged pet? Steve said ‘leash’. Arcee shivered: Bee would hate that so much! Or was he a defector not yet trusted? No, no, he wouldn’t!

Steve continued, “So I said to Brian, I said, look at the Autobot lazing around and recharging while we work hard, right? Wouldn’t it be fun to wake him up with a surprise? So I logged to our media dump, grabbed the Autobot alarm, and put it through that room’s console. I just thought I’ll make a little reaction vid, we’ll have a laugh, end of story.”

Arcee was relieved to hear ‘a little joke’ didn’t involve bodily harm, but still. Every moment of a prisoner’s time was filled with dreams of a rescue. She imagined waking up to a signal from friends, just to find guards making fun.

Of all the dreams in Bumblebee’s file, Arcee found the time machine most attractive. She’d go for Tailgate, for Cliffjumper… For Bumblebee! In her mind’s eye, Arcee arrived through time - just in time! - to the Nemesis they somehow located. Instead of whatever spark-broken reaction the clone wanted to record, Bumblebee cheered as he heard real shots in the corridor. Having paid the guards for their cruel joke, Arcee burst through the door, blasters smoking. She and the scout ran into the ground bridge before reinforcements arrived.

Ultra Magnus’ stiff voice woke Arcee up from her daydream. “ST-3v3, did you make that reaction video?”

***

After a brief struggle with himself, Ratchet insisted that Ultra Magnus gave the prisoner a cube of fuel while they watched the recording in a screen overlay.

Miko said, “Cool proboscis! Steve drinks like a bug. I’ve always wondered if clones ate.” Bulkhead extended his secondary-intake siphon, and she poked it with a finger, whispering, “Wow.”

It was so good to see Bumblebee, alive and well! Or reasonably well: the scout woke up with a pained cry, hands over audios. Arcee cried out with him, but quickly gained control and kept translating for the humans.

Ratchet frowned at the magnetic shackles Bumblebee wore. Unlike the larger manacles, these had very strong EM fields to compensate for their small size. They were meant for short-term detention, maybe a joor or two, not to recharge in! That must feel very aggravating. Ratchet noticed Bumblebee limping as he ran to the console. He couldn’t see anything else wrong, no burns or other marks, except…

There was laughter in the recording, ‘Shut up’ in Steve’s scratchy voice, and (presumably) Brian’s reply, ‘I can’t! His face!’

Ratchet felt like giving a medical order to take that cube away and administer some therapeutic shocks, but he stopped himself. _An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind_ , as Nurse Darby had quoted yesterday, when they talked about wars.

Ratchet said, “Optimus, ask what happened to Bumblebee’s left door mirror.”

Everybody did a double-take on the screen; one door wing had a little gleaming bulge near the transformation seam and the other didn’t. Ultra Magnus asked; Steve hastily slurped the rest of his energon and said, “The scraplets ate it.”

Wheeljack stepped to the door. “Permission to talk some sense into that joker?” - but Optimus shook his head.

Ultra Magnus’ face must have reflected a similar sentiment, because Steve dropped to his knees (the commander didn’t object this time) and said hastily, raising his hands in supplication, “No, no, please, that’s true! Please don’t hurt me, I’ll explain! I know that Seeker, right, Blackspin, he told me last time we banged. Commander Starscream keeps scraplets, you see, and when they interrogated the scout, right before Lord Megatron made him overload…”

Arcee retched.

“Pause it, Prime,” Fowler said, and Optimus did so.

Ratchet completely forgot Fowler was in the room. The agent had a way of blending into the background.

“Miko, Jack, head on out. I’ll brief you later,” Fowler ordered.

“We’ll go help Raf,” Miko said quietly as Bulkhead put her on the floor.

She ran to the door. Jack followed, his head low. The door closed behind them.

Optimus had the file on double speed for a klik, until it caught up to the live stream.

Frag to all the Pits that rust-eaten slagging war! They listened. Ratchet whispered more curses, Arcee made a crumpled knot out of a piece of thick rebar Bulkhead put in her hands, and Wheeljack cocked his head, as if he didn’t quite believe his audios.

Ratchet was struggling, and badly. He had seen it all. He had lived through genocides. From his patients’ wounds and memory flashbacks, he knew what the enemies did to prisoners. Yet hearing it from an uncaring voice of a Decepticon, with Bumblebee still a captive, was an insidious torture.

He forced himself to listen, “...So Commander Starscream would punch him some between the drops, because the scout screamed all right, but didn’t say anything, not the base coordinates, not even a curse. And that’s annoying.”

The view shook more, and they heard Ultra Magnus’ engine rev up in anger. One fist raised into view. The clone flinched, but Ultra Magnus only said, “Keep talking.”

The clone did. “Then the Seekers hauled in that mech-size scraplet jar of theirs. Commander Starscream promised to feed the scout to the scraplets piece by piece. Then he dropped that mirror into the jar, you know - show, don’t tell. They had Blackspin’s trine mates pull the scout’s legs apart by chains, slow-like. Blackspin said he bet someone his ration that the right leg will break off first, but then Lord Megatron arrived and stopped them, because the Autobots had moved.”

Smokescreen was clutching his head, muttering, “No…Wait…”

Poor kid. He had to have a big crush on Optimus, and held Bumblebee as his hero. Learning of them hurt by Megatron must be unbearable, Ratchet thought. Was the idea that Bumblebee defected more bearable than… this? Is that why Smokescreen thought so?

Optimus stood very still, his back to the group. Ratchet went to him and put an arm around his waist; Optimus hugged his shoulders. A long time ago they had decided not to show affection in public, but slag it all.

Wheeljack turned toward Bulkhead. “Not as bad as I thought. What do you know.”

Ratchet turned around abruptly, just in time to see: Arcee surged up and hit Wheeljack in the face, hard enough to dent his cheek. Wheeljack didn’t try to resist. Bulkhead pulled Arcee back, struggling and sobbing. He bellowed, “The frag, Jackie?!”

Optimus said softly, “Arcee, wait, please stand down.” His tone changed. “Wheeljack - explain!”

“What’s to explain, boss?” Wheeljack said, massaging his cheek. “Guess I deserve this. Thought the scout gave up and joined the other side. Thought wrong.”

Arcee stopped struggling, and everybody seemed to ex-vent at once.

“Oh, you don’t mean the torture’s not that bad,” Bulkhead said, the last one to get it, as usual.

Ultra Magnus must have looked scary again, because Steve had been silently trembling for a while. The commander asked icily, “What did Megatron do?”

The clone hastened to say, “There was no more torture! Lord Megatron sent everyone away. Except for the two jets holding the scout. Blackspin said they recorded, that’s how he knows. The scout talked then, well, beeped like Laserbeak - is he a symbiont?” The clone canted his helm to a side, then nodded, “Right, right, you are the one asking questions. So the scout talked back to Lord Megatron - he refused and begged, and he wouldn’t unlock his interface panel. But Lord Megatron didn’t punish _him_ any,” Steve said sourly, “just opened his panel with a knife, gave him a hand job, and read him something from his story.”

Ultra Magnus said, “Do you have that recording as well?”

 _By the Allspark, no, not that,_ Ratchet thought. Even if a recording were more reliable than the words of a mech who didn’t conceive of rape as torture.

The clone shook his head, “Blackspin wouldn’t share. He was out of whack, cause Lord Megatron slagged his trine mate for talking. That’s how it ended - Lord Megatron shot a Seeker for saying a couple of words, but took the Autobot to medbay,” Steve finished, shaking his head.

The view tilted down and lost focus: Ultra Magnus must be deep in thought.

“See that, Smokescreen? The _real_ _‘_ Con thing to do’!” Arcee said. “See who mocks Bee’s stories? Megatron! Bee would never agree to ‘face Megatron, not even under torture, he just needs that file to cope with his injury.”

Optimus said, “Agreed.”

Wheeljack said, “Cope? That’s still like fraternizing. Dangerous, too - see Buckethead using the stories? Almost had us believe Bee defected.”

Smokescreen whispered, “I, I don’t… I have to…”

“Arcee, I dunno if stories help to cope,” Bulkhead said. “It’s all the worse for Bee because of stories, isn’t it? Why’d he keep it secret?”

Ratchet glared. “BECAUSE THE LOT OF YOU AFTHEADS HAVE JUST DEMONSTRATED EXACTLY HOW CRUEL YOU CAN BE!!!” he exploded, making everybody jump. “Would you accept Bumblebee’s stories and Bumblebee himself if he shared? Would he want to be in your face with something you thought disgusting? Or risk you thinking him a traitor, when he’s done nothing else his entire life but serve the Autobots? Best-case scenario, you see him broken and his stories a crutch. Don’t confuse pity with kindness!”

Nobody was arguing, or speaking at all. Ratchet said, “It’s my fault. I am your doctor, I should have done more. Maybe sex ed lessons, like the humans have! Yip-yip, from the faces you make, it’s scarier than torture.” He glared, mechs’ reactions grimly satisfying, and proclaimed, “We will do it! Lesson one: stories are healthy, and every single one of you” - Ratchet waved his finger around - “makes up _some_ fantasies! Lesson two: sensory events and friend-foe routines are _not_ hardlinked in your bodies. Lesson three -...”

He was interrupted by Steve’s voice from the screen, “No more questions then?” The view jerked up as Ultra Magnus lifted his head and focused his optics. The clone was looking at the floor, clenching his hands tight, and speaking with an effort, “Your guy said I can’t defect - not that I thought it would work. But I answered everything, right? Just make it quick.” He turned off his visor and slumped low on his knees.

“I told Ultra Magnus to start asking tactical…” Optimus Prime began.

And then Smokescreen interrupted him - interrupted his all-time-adored Prime! - and said, his voice high and tinny, “Uh, guys. I’ve done a really bad thing...”


	14. Better Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee earns himself a message home, but realizes he has no idea what to tell the Autobots. He procrastinates with Knock Out’s fic from the latest issue of _New Fusion_ , which features himself in a series of unfortunate events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee/Knock Out/Vehicons, Megatron, Soundwave, Laserbeak, Shockwave.  
> Tags: Torture, Non-Con, Mindfrag, Execution, Knock Out’s Self-Indulgent Snuff Fic, ‘Die in a Fire!’ Request Filled, Repeatedly Dying and Remembering It, Hanging Like a Kitten by the Scruff of Its Neck, Breach of Patient Confidentiality.  
> Klik is about a minute and breem is about ten ([details](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4865111)).

* * *

 

They’d been deceived.

Smokescreen first, into recording that message for his (former) friend - “You traitor!” But how? Bumblebee wasn’t sure. Some things about that recording seemed suspicious, now that he had recovered from the shock of it. Ratchet’s meta-data stamp; nighttime, when everybody would normally recharge; and the phase shifter Bumblebee had glimpsed on Smokescreen’s wrist. Sneaking around alone, thinking he could outwit Megatron? Poor Smokescreen.

As for himself, Megatron had tempted his prisoner with a tantalizing ‘message from the Autobots’. Bumblebee had grabbed that promise of hope with both hands, and got a bundle of hurt instead of the live talk with Optimus Prime that he really wanted.

Naive, careless, stu… The scout stopped short. No, no calling himself demoralizing names. He had to pick his sorry aft up from Cybertron’s charred metal ground, and pull his spark from the Pit.

Bumblebee forced all his attention onto his frame. The bout of dizzy despair that had made him plop down on the ground was gone, though he was still hyperventilating. His right hand was held overhead by the steel cord linking his and Megatron’s wrists, clenching it tight so he would not fall. His face was tucked into the crook of his left arm, the magnetic shackle humming loudly next to his audio.

Such a fitting soundtrack to Megatron’s assurances that the Decepticons, unlike the Autobots, would appreciate Bumblebee’s stories.

Megatron’s brand of pick-me-up: “Cooperate with my cause, and you will suffer less.”

The warlord wasn’t too subtle about setting up said suffering ‘by Autobot’s hand’. Was it a demonstration of Decepticon methods for Bumblebee, or a bet that he’d be blind to them? After all, during Megatron’s _experiment_ , the scout had been tortured, terrified, sleep-deprived, taunted, and glitched into such blind stu… Into such blind mistakes. Like sitting on Megatron’s lap.

He’d had a bad day all right. Bad two days, and wasn’t thinking too well today, either. But two joors ago, Bumblebee had experienced that window of clarity, when he’d woken up feeling healthy, smart, and strong. Strong enough to face a memory _Soundwave_ had labelled disturbing, to make a story for Toivo about sex and violence with Megatron (despite the clear present danger of both), and to negotiate about the game festival.

When the warlord said, “Let’s go!” and pulled him up by the steel cord, Bumblebee managed to gather enough strength to stand. He sneezed, vents clogged with the bitter soot of the Omega Lock’s ruins.

A month ago, the Autobots had stood on this very ground, stood strong in their battle for Cybertron’s future. They had lost that battle. Megatron had deceived Optimus, deceived them all by threatening to cyberform Earth with the Omega Lock. That would have killed all indigenous life. In his mind, Bumblebee saw the giant blue-white beam of raw power, aimed through the space bridge at the human planet - at Raf’s home planet! Megatron and his officers had laughed and laughed. Megatron’s _demonstration_ had provoked Optimus into a desperate mad dash with the Star Saber. Optimus had shattered the Omega Lock - and their hope to restore the homeworld.

An unforgivable atrocity against the Cybertronian race, committed by the Autobots, witnessed by the Decepticons and the humans.

Regrets had been many. Ultra Magnus, Ratchet, and Optimus Prime had later analyzed the reasons Megatron would not have cyberformed the Earth beyond erecting a few buildings. He’d only had time for one, his new local headquarters in the Decepticons’ spiky, death-threat style.

No, cyberforming the planet would have disrupted Megatron’s energon production. It would have destroyed the ancient Cybertronian relics he had been hunting, and awoken Unicron within Earth’s core. The shard of Dark Energon lodged in Megatron’s spark was his life support. It kept him functioning, after a critical injury. And it would have made him a slave to the demiurge of chaos, should Unicron rise. Megatron would have never chosen that fate.

Which had been Megatron’s Plan A and which Plan B, between the Decepticons restoring Cybertron and the Autobots making it impossible? Or was he taking a third way, even more deceitful than met the eye? Bumblebee wasn’t sure - the Autobots had argued about it every which way and never agreed.

On a less grand scale, what was Megatron’s plan for Bumblebee, his _experiment_?

The warlord walked onto the shuttle, the scout in tow. In his mind, Bumblebee transformed and raced away free into the sunset. In the ‘so-called real life’ (as Knock Out put it), Bumblebee followed the road of the simplest meditation, the one Optimus insisted they repeated the most: Five Good Things. Breathe, remind yourself of simple good things, the first one always, _I’m alive_. When badly hurt, fancy won’t do.

Except being alive didn’t feel so good at the moment. Now what? He recalled the advice of his past-self from a recent daydream: “Make us some better stories.”

Starscream had called his stories _silly_ , Smokescreen _ugly_ , Megatron _propaganda_ , past-self _shackles and slag._ Screw that! Do better than that.

Three steps of his to one of the warlord’s, the now-familiar pattern. Take a step, take a shallow in-vent. Take two steps, hold the air. Take a step, breathe out. One foot in front of the other, one vent at a time. Air in, hold-hold, out, in-hold-hold-out, in-hold-hold-out. Three cycles, and then - _name a good thing._ _A better story, as you breathe._

The shuttle shook under Megatron’s thumping step: _I’m alive_. _I’m unbroken._

Bumblebee carefully refused to  retrieve, to see, to _know_ about any could-have-been deaths, ~~the fatal crash yesterday, the warlord shooting him in anger, interrogators dropping him all the way to the rocky ground by accident~~. Blurring events and scenarios that surged up from his memory banks was a handy trick, a part of the meditation.

Another breathing cycle, and a thump: _I’m healthy in my body, processor, and spark._ _My nasty secret Megatron-’facing recharge glitch seems cured._

Blur out ~~how it got worse, how he had daydreamed about Megatron while awake, how his charge had ramped up from every worry, fear, or sensation like a shower, how he’d lost all control over his imagination, how…~~ How awesome it would be to dream up stories without bodily compulsions!

Thump. _I negotiated_. _I’m gaining initiative in this fragged-up experiment._

Thump. _Toivo asked for my story, and liked it_. _An Autobot and a Decepticon collaborated to tell a tale._

No ifs, no buts, no looking at price tags, ~~Knock Out molesting him during repairs, interface with enemy officers for a recharge cycle, Megatron’s deception for a message home~~. Blur the memory surges, breathe out.

Thump. _I will send a message home_. _I will..._

“Meditating, scout?” Megatron interrupted, before Bumblebee could think of a better story for that. The warlord stepped toward the shuttle wall, his voice wistful. “Optimus taught me this one as well. Back before he was made a Prime.”

Back when they had been lovers. ::This one’s different,:: Bumblebee offered. He didn’t know if Megatron could tell that the tone of his buzzes was meant to be strong and sure, so he ramped up the volume. ::This one is my own. I can teach you if you want.::

Megatron could use it, too. The despicable things he did as his usual warlord self seemed at least rational; who wanted a tyrant of his caliber chaotically out-of-control under Dark Energon?

“Really, scout?” Megatron peered down at him, surprised, but then turned away. “Later. Business first: your requests.”

Megatron opened a wall compartment and took out something that made Bumblebee’s mood skid into a trench. It was a disk the size of the scout’s palm, with four sturdy, articulated, sharp-ended limbs: an inhibitor claw. Megatron traced a circle in the air with his finger, giving the silent command to turn around. _That_ was to be Bumblebee’s promised break from the itchy shackles?!

He shook his head and shrugged - _Negotiate better next time!_ \- and turned his back to Megatron. He knew the device was mostly harmless, if unpleasant. His door wings crawled, and he flattened them to his back, out of reach of Megatron’s touch. Thump! The cold flat disk landed between his wings, and magnetized over his spinal strut. He tensed, and managed not to wince when the four sharp tips dug into his transformation seams.

The claw activated. Its inhibiting field must have resonated with that of the shackles, messing up not only Bumblebee’s t-cog as intended, but all his EM systems. He thought the shackles were bad; now his every sensor from his fingertips to the inside of his spark chamber either buzzed, burned, or ached.

Why was Megatron torturing his prisoner? Why add physical insult to the mind-poisoning injury of his ‘message from the Autobots’?

Stubbornly, Bumblebee tried to focus on what mattered: to finish his meditation, to make a better story for his call home. It was so difficult to think with his frame in a wild disarray. Bumblebee’s helpless frustration surged, threatening to drown him. Megatron was turning him around with a gesture of one single finger! What did his ‘good things’, his little ‘better stories’ even matter? Pointless! Would Smokescreen shoot him in the face if they met right now? Who cared if Bumblebee held on through torture and mindfrag - if he survived?

Optimus. Optimus Prime, the leader of the Autobots - _he_ cared. But if Bumblebee sent Optimus a message in this state, it wouldn’t be a better story, a good anything. It would be utterly pathetic: “Please, please get me out now, I can’t take this anymore!”

Maybe that’s what Megatron wanted. The scout could not risk losing it like that on camera. Or rather, during an overt recording, because that felt different from hidden surveillance. If anything, he should be trying to convince the Autobots not to risk themselves or do anything rash on his behalf.

He needed to clear his mind, to rebalance the frag back to calm, to pause - longer than the time it took Megatron to make fifteen steps. Servos sluggish, gyros forgetting which way was up, Bumblebee slowly turned to face Megatron. He tried to speak, but only a burst of static came out.

Megatron, who had the detached look of a mech on a comm call, made a show of noticing the scout. He exclaimed, “Ahh, let me make you comfortable,” and removed Bumblebee’s shackles.

 _Finally!_ While the scout was rubbing his inflamed wrists like every mech ever freed from handcuffs, Megatron reached around, and magnetized the steel cord that had connected them to the inhibitor claw.

Megatron gestured to the cabin, but Bumblebee didn’t move. A part of him wanted to smugly inform the warlord he was savvy to that hurt-then-comfort pattern Megatron kept setting up. But the saner part of him saw the real savvy in pretend ignorance (in case the warlord thought him blind to manipulation) or pretend ignoring (in case the pattern was a demonstration).

Bumblebee only said, ::I want to review the game rules and the files you promised me, before I send my message to the Autobots. My message will make more sense if I understand more about the Decepticons.::

He hoped. If he had time, Bumblebee could also poke at meta-data in Smokescreen’s recording, and maybe even analyze some of the sick slag saved under _#Mindfrag_DecodeLater_. Up to and including yesterday’s sex.

Yesterday’s sex that he carefully was not thinking about. And that Megatron, for whatever reason, hadn’t mentioned yet - hadn’t used yet to taunt Bumblebee half to deactivation. That could only mean that Bumblebee had those taunts to look forward to, at the worst possible time. Unless he somehow dealt with it and told a better story.

He needed that pause!

Megatron scowled. “I have promised you the files, not leisure time. Are you trying to delay the games?”

::Should I be?:: Bumblebee couldn’t resist a little defiance, as much as he needed Megatron to cooperate.

For a moment he hoped his irony was lost on the warlord, who simply said, “No.” But then Megatron grabbed the steel cord, and yanked the scout up into the air.

Bumblebee gave an undignified beep-whirr of surprise, and flailed. Megatron slammed the fist holding the cord on the shuttle’s wall. The scout’s reflexes made him twist his body, landing limbs-first with a loud jarring clang, but his head and door wings stayed safe. Megatron’s right hand slapped next to his head with such force it made the shuttle vibrate. The warlord’s face loomed close, his red optics all Bumblebee could see.

“If you ask nicely,” Megatron growled. “If you say ‘please’ and call me by my title, you can have a breem.”

He let go of the cord, his gaze intent on the scout, red optics glowing purplish-hot. Bumblebee landed on his feet, and kept his balance in the narrow cage between the wall and the warlord, not touching either. Megatron took a step back, and cycled his vents in the pattern Optimus had taught both of them.

That reference was like a friendly wink, as jarring as being body-slammed into the bulkhead. The purple tint left Megatron’s optics, but Bumblebee knew the rage must be just under the surface. He felt strangely tempted to provoke it, though not in the way Starscream might have in his place. Pain wasn’t his thing - he didn’t even realize, until yesterday, it _was_ a thing to like. The hurt-story Bumblebee had told Toivo wasn’t a worry-dream.

He just wanted out, now.

But Megatron couldn’t be trusted to kill him, couldn’t be trusted for anything. No, the scout would have to escape this helplessness the slow and steady way: survive, make plans, seize chances. He would say the thing, have his pause, get his scrap together. And then move on, one step at a time.

::Lord Megatron, please give me... two breems of quiet time to review files,:: Bumblebee said, and hoped the edit was more unbroken than suicidal.

Megatron looked him in the optics, then shook his head and chuckled, amused rather than angry. He pulled the cord up again, slowly this time, magnetized it to the wall, and stepped back. He stood there for a moment, as if admiring a decoration.

Slag. The scout kept his gaze steady, his door wings tremor-free, and his soles and palms planted spread on the wall for balance. Now what? After the first night, Megatron had not molested his prisoner, not even when Bumblebee sat on his lap. There hadn’t been as much as a stray touch when the warlord handled his restraints. But what if yesterday’s high-grade-fueled, glitchy, sleepwalking interface had given Megatron ideas?

If it had, the warlord didn’t show them. He nodded to himself, turned away, and went to the pilot’s cabin. Bumblebee could see him powering up the console.

He was sure Megatron had hung him up as a warning, a punishment for not saying and doing exactly what he’d been told. He entertained a brief fantasy where he was more like a metrotitan of old, not like Ultra Magnus’ kitten Raf sometimes carried by the scruff of its neck. But Bumblebee felt no obligation to suffer.

Dangling by one leg during his interrogation had hurt, and this didn’t. His back struts and armor distributed his weight. It reminded him of a reconnaissance mission with Jazz in the Manganese Mountains. Jazz had taken point, shooting his grappling hook up into a crevice and climbing there, then securing himself and belaying Bumblebee. The first time the scout had slipped on an overhang cliff over a dizzying abyss, he had panicked, screamed, flailed, and banged himself on the rocks while swinging on Jazz’s cable. Once his body had learned to trust the safety of the cable as unconditionally as his mind had trusted Jazz… And to focus on the wall (not the chasm), and to balance while hanging - his terror had turned into thrill.

That mountain mission had prompted the scout to add his _Free Fall over Saturn_ story to his worry-dream file. The story where he trusted fantasy-Megatron to hold him over the space abyss.

Comfy enough, Bumblebee put his left arm between the wall and his back, and bent his right knee, foot flat on the wall. He streamed a music file, a short, upbeat, messy human ‘metal rock’ song Miko had shared, and retrieved the rules of the game.

And the rules just sat there in his working memory, unexamined. _What should he record for the Autobots?!_ Bumblebee wanted to tell them the truth about himself, but what was his true story, his better story?

His story had changed. Kept changing.

Two days ago, he had taken his last evening drive as a free mech. From the road to the swirling ground bridge; the Seekers had dragged him to the Nemesis, frozen stiff and mute by the Immobilizer weapon, listening to jeers, smelling his own singed circuitry because Starscream had kept the ray on too long. And then there had been an interrogation scene.

 

> The brave scout resisted cruel torture, and never talked.
> 
> or
> 
> Bumblebee, always unsure of his fearful glitchy self, emulated heroic cliché stories of how a good soldier should behave.
> 
> or
> 
> A representative Autobot experienced the first phase of ‘a demonstration, and an experiment’.

The first story might be kinder to him, the second more revealing, the third more real - and he didn’t know which was better. “What story do you want, Toivo?” - he wished he could ask Optimus, and then hear his replies, and answer his comments as the story went along!

After that interrogation, Megatron had played out a mockery of Bumblebee’s secret worry-dreams, all the way to his overload. Bumblebee shivered, recoiling from ‘rape’ and ‘better story’ in the same sentence. His processor might get there one day (after many careful talks with someone like Optimus), but that day was not today. However, he had to warn the Autobots that their enemies would cross that line with prisoners! He wished he could explain what that was about, wished he knew. The act seemed deliberate. Megatron had looked Bumblebee in the optics as he had done it, and his were pure red. Deliberate, just like Megatron shooting a Seeker for a very minor disobedience: a demonstration, a darkly puzzling part of the experiment.

The next day… The next day was made of glitchy fatigued scared missteps between fantasies and realities. Incomprehensible, unless… Bumblebee’s music file ran out. In the sudden silence, the kaleidoscope of chaotic memories clicked into a new picture. He slapped his palm against his face in exasperation, the clang a fitting end to the metal song, the sudden movement making his hanging frame rock. Why hadn’t he seen it before? It was a bizarre twist on that day’s story, where the Decepticons had done their Decepticonish best to curb his fears.

It all fit! All seemed _deliberate_. He’d been repaired, fed, and housed. Overtly threatened only by Knock Out’s inane jokes. Teased about his stories till he habituated and stopped reacting. Repeatedly exposed to that sleepy feeling the steel cord restraint seemed to give him (which had worn off some, but was here even now). Kept close to Megatron, first on the cord-leash and then without, until Bumblebee’s alarm lost out to his exhaustion - until his scouting routines, high-threat warnings, and battle protocols stood down. Until he relaxed and fell asleep on the warlord’s lap!

That story most definitely went under _#MindFrag_ tag, but should he tell it to the Autobots? How? Would they believe him, while Bumblebee himself didn’t know what to believe? What would they make of it without any discussion, or of his worsening glitch, or how he ended up not being able to recharge until he interfaced with Soundwave and Megatron, and woke up glitch-free, nightmares not channeling into charge anymore, yet still proceeded to tell Toivo the Vehicon a seductive tale upon request, and Megatron…

Here Megatron came, his smirk probably illegal under the Galactic Council’s torture treaty Starscream had quoted. “I do want to discourage insolence, scout” - he handed Bumblebee a chip. “However, I realize you may find today’s _New Fusion_ quite engaging. Have your two breems.”

He walked back into the pilot’s cabin and closed its doors, while Bumblebee set alarms for one and two breems, then plugged the chip into his wrist port.

Engaging? Yes, Bumblebee couldn’t resist. Between Soundwave’s file of Autobot atrocities, the Festival of the Two game rules, and the three issues of _New Fusion_ , he selected the issue marked with today’s date - its icon, the magazine’s cover, featuring his portrait. He turned off his optics (the shuttle’s shaking would alert him when Megatron came back) and enlarged the cover on his HUD.

It was a stylish, slightly animated, 3D-rendered cartoon. Bright, easy on the eye, more intense than the reality. Bumblebee had rendered media for his worry-dreams, but nothing on par with this. He wondered who the artist was, and would call the cartoon beautiful - if it hadn’t featured himself, trying and failing not to squirm in front of a firing squad.

Bumblebee sent the signal to open the cover story. It came with tags, comments, and other meta-data he skipped for now, because audio began to stream. Knock Out’s lazy slow drawl contrasted with the rapidly blinking time countdown in the corner of the scout’s HUD.

 

> I'm not only an automobile; I'm an automobile enthusiast. Earth, Vehicon, even Autobot - pretty cars in shiny finish make my engine rev up. It’s always delish to see an exquisite carformer in a dangerous predicament!
> 
> Our cute little Autobot scout couldn’t agree less. Look at him trying not to tremble! I just want to come and pinch his plump cheek, but I let him pose for a bit. He couldn’t stand tall if his life depended on it, instead of merely being forfeit. Still, check him out: shoulders squared as much as possible while tied up, door wings proudly spread, and head held high.
> 
> ‘Defiance,’ sculpture in mixed media: durasteel pole, magnetic shackles, Autobot prisoner.
> 
> Even his large blue optics don’t dart all around. You know that funny thing he does? Looking here, there, trying to spy something, anything for the Autobot war effort - like the number of rivets in each segment of the Nemesis’ armor. As if it would help. Today, the scout looks straight over the heads of the firing squad, at the little yellow sun rising over the flight deck.
> 
> He must be playing a role out of a pompous script from some Golden Age public execution vid. Ridiculous. How can such a solemn scene ever lift the morale? I’ll fix it in a moment.
> 
> I check the ready-light on the fat transmitter plugged at the nape of the prisoner’s neck, finish his health scan, send the data to Shockwave, receive his go-ahead, and then hail our eyes-in-the-sky on the general comm channel.
> 
>  *Laserbeak, darling! Would you stream for us?*
> 
> The gray-purple spybird arrives in no time, always on the scene when needed. She hovers overhead, and begins transmitting video to the gen channel. Don’t we look fetching this morning? Oh yes, yes we do, I made sure of that! Grounders-only for the firing squad, with enough of the finest high-gloss wax for every trooper. I’ve even let them borrow my second-finest buffer. The finest I’ve kept for myself and the scout, of course.
> 
> “Smile and wave for the camera, boys!” I tell the Vehicons.
> 
> I come up close to the scout.

Bumblebee paused the stream. ‘Content: disturbing’ as Soundwave would tag it, and nothing but sick slag to expect from Knock Out’s character approaching his. He had to admit the doctor could be very perceptive when he paid attention. Knock Out had him there about hopeless spying, and about trying to copy stories of old. Ugh, too much attention!

Seeking distraction so he wouldn’t upchuck his meal, Bumblebee pulled up the ‘Request’ piece of meta-data. It read: “The officers need the scout pampered. I get it. Me, I want to see the slagger suffer. I want him to die. A thousand deactivations for every one of us he shot. Make it so us troopers get to kill him. Make him fear, beg, and tell us he is sorry. - _Anonymous_. Move up the queue: recent loss of a team mate. - _Editor-in-Chief Starscream_.”

…

…

The first coherent thought that came to Bumblebee after what felt like a soft reboot was, _I am about to play in a game festival with these mechs. How?_

Could it be Toivo making this request? He’d said Bumblebee had shot his mate. But no, Toivo didn’t like to see gore and suffering, and didn’t talk in chopped sentences.

So much hate. And grief. Bumblebee didn’t feel afraid, as the anon trooper hoped, but sorrow… Would he be able to express that he was sad about the war, short of laying down his life?

Some distraction! Bumblebee shook his head, then resumed Knock Out’s audio, now at 64x speed. Fast-flowing rich data was a drain on the processor, especially the emotional matrix, and dampened signals from the sensory net, but his two breem limit had no mercy.

 

> I come up close to the scout. Laserbeak smartly flies to the side, to have all of us in view. I throw my arm around the scout’s waist. He tries to squirm away, with nowhere to go, and beeps some protest, calls me impolite names - who cares what? I strike a sexy pin-up pose, my curvy hip out to try and touch the scout’s. He really thrashes and struggles then, and I jab my fingers into his side’s transformation seams. The ticklish scout can’t help it - he gives a startled giggle and recoils from my hand, clanging hips with me - for that perfect high-res photo dear talented Laserbeak promptly snaps. And then shares.
> 
> Enough playing! The troops are restless, eager for a different kind of fun. Shockwave is pinging me to carry on. Even the scout is sobbing, ::Get on with it, you dirty perv.::
> 
> I move aside, raise my hand, and command, “Ready!”
> 
> As one, the disciplined Vehicons transform out their blasters. The scout tries to look the hero again, but he’s shaking all over in the most amusing way.
> 
> “Aim!”
> 
> The Vehicons do.
> 
> The scout beeps, ::Wait, plea…” just as I drop my hand and say, “Fire!”
> 
> I love the smell of fresh plasma in the morning. Fresh plasma burning through armor. The Autobot crumbles in a heap, a messy large hole melted through his chest. Vehicons laugh and cheer.
> 
> “Serves him right.”
> 
> “That’s for my squad mate, Autoscrap!”
> 
> “Say hi to Unicron for us.”
> 
> And so on. They have good reasons for their good cheer, too. Executions of high-profile killers tend to disappoint. The scout has taken too many Decepticon lives to only pay back one of his. By Soundwave’s accounting, forty-six mechs died by his very hand since we have arrived on this dusty mudball.

What? Bumblebee paused the recording and pulled up Soundwave’s file. The single root entry ‘Autobot Atrocities and Acts of War’ took him to a tree structure. The tree had a whole forest’s worth of branches, with options to browse by date, army division, or location. A search for ‘Bumblebee’ yielded an extensive table.

The table was sorted by time. It listed names, designations, ranks, dates, locations, and short comments. The scout skipped the long list of pain and death almost to the end, to the Earth part. There, most names were clones (such as KA-T13, trooper, wounded on duty guarding a mine, deactivated from system crash). Seekers had sky-related names, like Windcline (shot in Darkmount assault, instantly deactivated from spark failure) and Stormbrewer (wounded in a relic mission, t-cog permanently disabled, deactivated himself). Skyquake, a junior officer, had a longer entry: gory death from Bumblebee mauling him in flight, zombie-resurrection, being trapped in the Shadowzone.

Forty-six. Just him, just on Earth.

He closed the file, cycled a vent, and decided to think about atrocities versus acts of war at another time. Back to _New Fusion_. While Bumblebee had listened, once in a while a counter of replies had ticked up, comments apparently tagged to particular places in the audio file. He retrieved the comments, bracing himself for the Decepticons cheering about his character’s hurt, like their characters had been in Knock Out’s story.

\- What’s with making out?

  - Did you even read the request? He wanted to see the scout dead, not fondled and admired.

    - The requester wanted suffering, and that’s what the scout hates the most. - Knock Out

      - That’s not why you wrote this way and you know it.

      - Stop with ur car fetish, u creep! Selfies with an Autobot, sheesh.

_> >> Thread frozen by Editor-in-Chief <<<_

\- “Boys”?!! Frag that scrap!

\- Is he ticklish for real? Heh.

\- Good to see the Autobot sob. But it was supposed to come from the troopers!

  - They shot him, didn’t they? - Knock Out

    - And who got the spotlight?

      - Three officers in the scene. Figures.

_> >> Thread frozen by Editor-in-Chief <<<_

Sooo. Bumblebee wasn’t the only one who hated the story, huh? That - that felt fantastic, in fact. He wished he could leave some comments too, some signed - and some anonymous! He checked the timer and scrolled to the last thread, while storing the two amazing pieces of intel. Laserbeak was an officer (wow); and _New Fusion_ harbored insubordination in comments (at least against Medical Officer Knock Out). Some tactical data, for once, not just ‘rivets on the Nemesis’ armor’!

\- I’m with the others - way to ignore the request!

  - Well, I was drunk and tired after an extra shift. - Knock Out

    - Excused, for my part. - LB

    - Knowing that doesn’t make the story any better.

      - Worse. 0/10, want my two kliks back.

        - If you hate it so much, I am not going to post Chapter Two. - Knock Out

          - We should make the scout write it.

            - Ha, that would be fun. More fun than this mess, anyway.

Him writing that?!

Bumblebee resumed the audio. Listening was both easier, now that he knew others shared his dislike of the story (and the author!) - and harder. It reminded Bumblebee of how he’d felt when Knock Out and Starscream had made a drinking game out of weaknesses in one of his stories. The doctor’s voice sounded as snide as before, his past-self oblivious to his future audience’s reactions.

 

> We shall not be disappointed this time! On cue, a ground bridge opens, and a trooper walks out, pulling an antigrav platform with a forcefield box on it, like those we use for energon. I clap my hands in delight. Riddle me this: _What is cubic, black-yellow, and screaming?_
> 
> Thrashing, too, making the box dance on the platform.
> 
> ‘Hysterics,’ sculpture in mixed media: a forcefield cube, magnetic shackles, Autobot prisoner.
> 
> I come close to the cute little package. The scout sits there with his back against cube’s side, door wings splayed flat. His elbows are tucked between his chest and his raised knees. Shackled hand and foot and packed tight, he still manages to bang around. I put a hand on the cube to steady it, and ask: “So far, how do you like the experience of being executed, Autobot?”
> 
> I have to yell over the racket he’s making. I decide I had enjoyed the scout better before cloning restored his vocalizer.
> 
> He doesn’t react at all. Annoying.
> 
> “Snap out of it!”
> 
> He doesn’t seem to see or hear me.
> 
> The transmitter had been sending data to Shockwave’s new machine until the last possible nanoklik. And now we have the scout back, perfectly cloned with all the memories of his past life, up to and including death, gift-wrapped for our ongoing play.
> 
> “Come hold him down for me, boys,” I call. Eager Vehicons stand at the ready when I disperse the cube. They grab the writhing scout and stretch him on the platform, arms over head and legs straight, pinned down so that I can magnetize the shackles to the floor. “You are not hurting now, but,” I still have to yell, running a scan, “your sensory net thinks you are being melted. What a fun side effect.”
> 
> I send the data package to Shockwave. He will need to recalibrate his process. Not because we care to spare the prisoner any pain, but for science! The _Life Insurance Project_ is meant for us Decepticons. The most difficult part was a two-way spark entanglement between the current copy and the nascent one. I figured it all out - yes, I am that good! Starscream’s accident with his four spark-bonded clones helped, a little.
> 
> I plug into the transmitter in the back of the scout’s neck. It has access past his firewalls; I reset his sensory net for him.
> 
> As fun as screams have been, the quiet is nice for a change. The scout lays there, panting, shaking, and glaring up at me.
> 
> “How do you like being executed?” I repeat, still curious. “We have a few dozen more experiments to run today...”
> 
> “Get fragged!” the scout rasps.
> 
> “Tsk. Rude! These are the first words out of your new vocalizer? Back to screaming, then,” I tell him, and see him cringe. I start pulling shock prods out of my subspace and distributing them to the clones. “Middle settings, everybody!” I warn. “Let’s make him last a klik or two. A curious medical fact: mechs dying from electric shocks always overload right at the end. Wanna see?”
> 
> The scout begins to thrash quite nicely even before the first shock lands, crying, “No! Stop! Please!” and the like. Then it’s just the crackle of electricity and shrieks. The Vehicons prod him, by turns and together, on limbs and sides and door wings - everywhere but over the spark, where it can instantly kill. Awww, I taught them well!
> 
> They watch for the overload, then point and laugh when they sense a sweet tingle, when the scout’s EM field transitions from agony into something new: the ecstasy at the end. His interface covers snap open. His spike is fully pressurized, blue biolights urgently pulsing between thin zig-zag ridges in black and yellow. The handsome pure-yellow tip glistens in the sun. One last shock, all together; the spike flexes and…

Bumblebee screamed in real life. He aborted the file, interrupting Knock Out’s description of his torture to death, of his spike (clearly based on observing him under medical stasis, slaggit!) and of its overload (made up - please let it be made up!).

He’d been yanked up in the air by the steel cord, and was thrashing while dangling over - Soundwave? Of course! The mech walked like a shadow.

The tentacle that had plucked Bumblebee off the wall was fully extended, keeping him a fastidious distance away from its owner. Who was looking up, faceplate blank, as impassive and silent as Bumblebee was panicky.

Megatron already stood in the doorway of pilot’s cabin, watching the commotion.

Bumblebee forced himself to relax his frame, swinging back and forth as he hang, vents hitching and engine running too hot. ::Megatron, you promised two breems and it’s not even been a half,:: he accused. That death story wasn’t easy to endure, even without Soundwave springing on him like this!

“Did I promise two _uninterrupted_ breems?” Megatron smirked. “You have so much to learn about negotiations, scout!” Then, in a softer tone, “Put him down, Soundwave. You are not towing him to Shockwave’s lab in your alt form.”

Bumblebee flinched hard, and beeped, ::What?!::

Megatron grinned, but didn’t explain. “Soundwave, we haven’t planned any torture for today, and he’s terrified of heights. Just take this shuttle.”

Soundwave inclined his head and lowered Bumblebee to the floor, not letting go of the cord.

The scout tried not to let his voice shake when he insisted, ::Why is Soundwave taking me there?::

The last place in the multiverse he wanted to be after hearing Knock Out’s story was Shockwave’s lab! Was that story a dream, just a sick fantasy - or a plan, news released ahead of the event? _Not hurting now_ , he told himself, trying not to hear the words in Knock Out’s drawl. Or to fixate on the crazy hope that the Decepticons had means to restore his vocalizer.

This time, Megatron replied, “Soundwave has a task at the lab. And you, scout - on your way there and back, you can have the rest of what I promised: _the quiet two breems_ , _input on the rules of the games_ , and _a private conversation with Soundwave_. Then you can record for the Autobots, and then - the games. No more delays.”

Oh, good news, good things: he was coming back, and apparently, torture wasn’t planned - just happening spontaneously, as the Decepticons lived and breathed.

Bumblebee thought, once again, about what to tell the Autobots, and drew another complete blank. He imagined himself just screaming in anguish, like his clone in the story. Might as well, for all the sense his words were going to make, one-way, without any conversation, without…

He had a crazy idea, and acted before he could get second thoughts. ::Megatron, would you join me for the recording?”

It was Megatron’s turn to answer with an incredulous, “What?!”

::For my recording for the Autobots, I want to have a conversation. I can’t talk with _them_ till later, you’ve said. How about talking with _you_? It just… It just makes sense!:: It did, even if he couldn’t put into words the vague feeling of entanglement that, for better or for worse, was the truth of his and Megatron’s stories.

“Told you, Soundwave,” Megatron said, alarmingly pleased about something. “You want a little talk show, scout? You’ve got it.” He then frowned, mock-stern. “Just remember: no interfacing on camera!”

Here it came, the inevitable teasing. Bumblebee didn’t blurt out the vindictive retort that crossed his mind, ‘You aren’t as good as your character, anyway!’ That wasn’t a better story for him to tell - to be caught telling on surveillance-cameras. Mirroring obscenities might be a way to cope with a sick story, but it would not help to heal it. Besides, if Megatron objected, Bumblebee would be unable to argue, knowing that claim wasn’t true.

He just nodded and acknowledged the sensible-enough rule, ::No interfacing on camera.::

His mind was racing, now full of promising ideas for his ‘little talk show’. He hoped to _show_ more than he hoped to _talk_ \- show the Autobots that he was unbroken, not a glitch, taking initiative, cooperating only when it made sense. Rich data, direct reality, food for thought.

 _I will send a message home_. _I will invite the Autobots to make their own better stories._

Maybe the ‘Cons, as well?

Bumblebee stepped toward the pilot’s cabin, tugged on Soundwave’s immovable tentacle by the steel cord, and called, ::Let’s go!::


	15. Shikata Ga Nai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumblebee not-apologizes to Soundwave for involving him in unwanted sex; the results are unnerving. He then checks out the rules for the Festival of the Two, which he wasn’t able to examine before agreeing to participate. The two encounters during the trip make Bumblebee consider who and what can and cannot be helped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee, Soundwave, Insecticon, Knock Out, Ravage, Vehicons/Vehicons, Unicron/Primus.  
> Tags: Psychological Torture, Referenced Non-Con, Decepticon Propaganda, Freedom of Interface Decepticon-Style, Objectifying Soundwave’s Tentacles, Festival of the Two, Keeping or Losing Dignity, Minor Character Death.  
> Image credits: Transformers Prime series (the clones), Alain Matthes (the triangle).

::Let’s go!:: Bumblebee said, tugging on the steel-cord restraint that Soundwave held in his tentacle. The scout thought he succeeded at standing tall, sounding determined, and keeping his EM field to himself. In his disturbing execution story, Knock Out had mocked that stance as futile defiance - but for Bumblebee, it wasn’t about challenging the enemy. It was about keeping his own dignity.

That seemed all but impossible when facing the terror of being taken to Shockwave’s lab, as Knock Out’s story had it. When asked why he had to go, Megatron said that Soundwave had a task there, and to save time, he would have his promised conversation with Bumblebee on the way. Megatron implied a lack of connection with Knock Out’s story, but it could be a false-logic loophole. The task that the warlord hadn’t specified could be anything. Could be about the captive Autobot!

The technology in the story was not as far-out science fiction as the tiny ground bridges or time machines in Bumblebee’s worry-dreams. The Decepticons already had the cloning tech for the ‘resurrection’ part of it, and the instant data-transfer stream, rigged for the cloned mech to remember the moment of death, seemed very doable. Bumblebee wasn’t sure about the spark entanglement, but he knew that Starscream’s clones, mentioned as the inspiration for it, had been real.

So: would the ‘Cons do it? Had Megatron decided that Bumblebee was too uppity for his _experiment_ , and that scary stories, a bit of EM torture, hanging on a wall, and being made to call his enemy ‘Lord’ were not enough to curb his defiance? Did Megatron believe that an execution or five in his memory banks would produce a more agreeable scout?

Bumblebee tried to tell himself that no, the warlord seemed happy, especially when invited to be in the ‘little talk show’ recorded for the Autobots. Or maybe his glee was a deception. Or maybe Soundwave was going to reformat Bumblebee into a symbiont, like a Vehicon suggested earlier. Or maybe...

Bumblebee glanced along the biolight-striped length of Soundwave’s outstretched tentacle. He knew beyond doubt that the silent spooky officer was capable of atrocities, but one thing was clear: he had zero interest in molesting his prisoner, as Knock Out had done in his story (and quite possibly, in his medbay). That part seemed most undignified. Even the anonymously commenting clones had been disgusted, for all that they didn’t seem to think that forced sex was _wrong_ as such.

Huh. Backfire: instead of Bumblebee-the-character, the story humiliated Knock Out-the-author!

This comforting thought finally brought the scout back to reasonable calm. Meanwhile, Soundwave gave his usual subtle bow-nod in Megatron’s direction, probably responding to a comm, and led Bumblebee to the pilot’s cabin. Experimentally, the scout tried to pull and make him walk faster, but that pliable-looking tentacle was as unbending as a durasteel rod. Bumblebee’s freedom of movement was limited to the little sphere, its radius the short steel cord stretched between the tentacle’s graspers and the inhibitor claw on his back.

He watched that tentacle-end closely. He wouldn’t be able to stop Soundwave from yanking him around or up in the air as earlier, but at least it would not make him cry out in surprise.

To his relief, his charge wasn’t running high, even with him staring at the pretty red feelers undulating at the end of the tentacle. Nope, he wasn’t excited, and the fears of the last joor hadn’t thrown Bumblebee into any naughty daydreams, either. It made him surer that his old glitch was gone.

Or maybe he was still sated after his overload with Megatron and Soundwave. It had been _intense_.

The extra chair between the pilot’s and the co-pilot’s seats (where Bumblebee had sat on their trip to Cybertron) transformed, merging with the floor as they entered the cabin, probably at Soundwave’s signal. Bumblebee went ahead of his tentacle-leash as it moved to the co-pilot’s chair. He sat down, lowered the chair’s back to make room for his door wings and the inhibitor claw between them, then engaged and adjusted the safety belts. Soundwave looped Bumblebee’s steel cord around the chair’s handle and magnetized its end somewhere underneath, plugging his freed tentacle into the shuttle’s data port.

Soundwave’s upper-arm plates lowered, as if releasing tension. Relieved?

Neither these mundane tasks, nor watching Soundwave do the quick planetary take-off prep for the shuttle, nor even the fear of flying a rickety drone machine to a horrifying destination, could distract Bumblebee from the forthcoming conversation. The one he had requested, bargained for, and dreaded.

Every pilot flew differently. Wheeljack threw his _Jackhammer_ into fancy spirals and jumps resembling his acrobatics during sword fights. Ultra Magnus made the _Iron Will_ follow the hyperbolas straight out of the recommended flight protocols that Bumblebee and every Autobot had received from their central command: perfect, boring, and optimal.

Optimal? Soundwave’s takeoff rocketed to the horizontal-flight orbit much faster than the protocol Bumblebee recalled. His attempts at best-fit curves were foiled. The trajectory readjusted itself every nanoklik, probably making use of minute changes in winds, pressure, and turbulence; the takeoff was so speedy and smooth that it felt like some trick with a ground bridge or quantum engines.

Anyway! The talk!

::Is the shuttle on autopilot? Can you talk?:: he finally managed, too quiet.

Soundwave heard, though: he silently signaled it by turning his blank face-mask to his right, toward Bumblebee.

While Bumblebee’s voice had been stolen by Megatron’s war - by the warlord’s own hand - Soundwave’s had been willingly given to his leader: the vow of silence, until Megatron’s cause was won. In his worry-dreams, Bumblebee had his voice back, because the war was over and Ratchet had access to better equipment. Was Soundwave dreaming of his voice too, come the peace?

Meanwhile, they still had their comms, data cables, and gestures for voiceless talking. Soundwave could play back recorded snippets of sounds and display visuals on his screen-mask; Bumblebee buzzed in binary.

He cycled a vent and plunged into The Talk. ::I am not apologizing, because that would be wrong. You are holding me prisoner. You are a Decepticon officer - it’s your fault too I almost crashed yesterday!:: Primus, but he didn’t mean to be accusing Soundwave right now. He hadn’t planned to say that last sentence. Bumblebee glanced at his current jailer and partner-in-nightmare; there was no reaction. ::Anyway, you interfaced with me and stopped my system crash. And I, I… I turned that interface into sex. I couldn’t control myself, I was glitching and falling into recharge, but I knew even then you wanted none of it. And that is not right.::

Not right at all! Maybe if he hadn’t drunk jet high grade right before plugging cables, or had been more strong-willed, or had not found tentacles so _very_ fascinating, Bumblebee could have…

Laserbeak had said Soundwave was unhappy because Bumblebee was here. Wait till she learned of this - or had she already? Would it make her decide that for getting rid of him, termination was superior to escape?

If Soundwave was sharing any of Bumblebee’s angst right now, it didn’t show. He still didn’t move, didn’t play a sound, and didn’t make any imagery appear on the blank screen of his mask.

Bumblebee continued, ::I’m not saying sorry, because I was forced into all that. I had no control and no choice - but neither had you, not under Megatron’s orders. So I want you to know that I know. I know you didn’t want sex, I remember it all, and I think it is sad, bad, and wrong.::

It was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to say.

He froze still, held his venting, and waited. And waited. He might as well have been talking to the reddish-gray acid-rain clouds speeding past the cabin’s window for all the response he got. After half a klik of silence, Soundwave turned away, adjusting a control on the shuttle’s panel, then just sat there doing nothing visible. Probably working on his files.

No acknowledgement. No closure. Before the talk, the scout had been afraid of hostility: threats to disclose his perversions to his friends, or mockery of silly private thoughts Soundwave must have witnessed behind his firewalls, or maybe a cruel (yet Megatron-approved) punishment. This - this unexpected _nothing_ was hard to bear. Was this Soundwave’s idea of punishment? Would Soundwave hurt Bumblebee later, when he had more time and tools at the lab? Or was he also feeling sad and wrong, this lack of response not about the scout, but Soundwave’s way of keeping his own dignity?

Bumblebee decided that the last one was a better story, and that, lacking contrary data, he would stick to it. Nothing more he could have done now, anyway. He couldn’t force Soundwave to respond, and would not, even if he could.

The scout followed Soundwave’s example and went to work on a file: the rules of the upcoming Festival of the Two.

 _Should have examined this earlier_ , was his last thought outside of the file.

Inside the file, the first unexpected thing he noticed was its rich-media nature, instead of the plain text he had anticipated. And then his thoughts jumped and scattered, attempting scouting protocols in the overflow of new, surprising, and alarming data:

 

 

 

 

 

> _Ahh, that’s why the file’s so heavy._
> 
> _All these vids, a couple of stills…_
> 
> _Where do the ‘Cons ever get the time for all the media they make?_
> 
> _Skip that! Not enough time._
> 
> ** 1\. The Decepticons have expropriated the Festival of the Two from the oppressive Senate and its rich cronies. With our first Festival since the fall of the Senate, we restore the games back to their historical roots. Let us celebrate collaboration and friendly competition between Unicron and Primus! **
> 
> ** **
> 
> ** Alt Text: Lightning in Unicron blue and Primus orange, overlaid by the pure-white Decepticon insignia. **
> 
> _Is this Primus and Unicron overloading together?!_
> 
> _Hadn’t Unicron tried to enslave or kill us all a few months ago? Collaborate?!_
> 
> _More rules, less propaganda!_
> 
> ** 2\. The prizes are advancements in rank, not crumbs from corporate tables. **
> 
> ** **
> 
> ** Alt text: A ceremony promoting four troopers to lieutenants. **
> 
> _Ooh, I can hardly wait._
> 
> _A shiny rank to go with my shiny junior officer quarters and my shiny shackles?_
> 
> _Can I have the prize in cash instead?_
> 
> ** 3\. Endura proposals became a sick festival custom during the so-called Golden Age. Endura status means possession of one mech by another. It is nothing but a form of slavery. Mechs are not prizes! Our version of the Festival lets you enjoy freedom of interface, Decepticon-style. **
> 
> ** **
> 
> ** Alt text: Overloads of players celebrating after the Festival. **
> 
> _NONONONONO                   Slag my life!_
> 
> _The art style seems the same as the cover of Knock Out’s story._
> 
> _All the colors of the discharge… Like fireworks. Or firefights!_
> 
> _Is consent Decepticon-style too?! Do they even know the word?_
> 
> _But clones keep saying sex with an Autobot is gross._
> 
> _They want to kill me, if anything, not to frag me. But, Toivo… Slag!_
> 
> _Wait, is that five of them doing a…_
> 
> _With cables and door wings and..._
> 
> _Like that time Fowler said, “Smoking Kama Sutra!” and I searched…_
> 
> NO
> 
> ** 4\. No more indentured servants hurt and killed for the amusement of the idle rich! During the festival, we follow strict safety rules: no weapons, no transformations, no tampering with inhibitors or other game devices. Save your fury for the war effort. Doing anything to another player that leaves a mark or results in death is against the rules. Perpetrators are disqualified, given eight lashes, and a megacycle of hard labor in the mines. **
> 
> ** **
> 
> ** Alt text: Wrestling, not fighting. **
> 
> _Almost reasonable. By the ‘Con standards._
> 
> _Can’t go by the ‘Con standards! Stop that. Lots of cruelties don’t leave marks._
> 
> _Megatron the former miner uses mines for punishment. Ironic._
> 
> _Some way to end oppression!_
> 
>            
> 
> ** 5\. Transition from the Decepticon war faction to the prosperity of the Decepticon Empire calls for new methods. In addition to our perennial values of individual wit, initiative, and strength, we will promote stronger teamwork. The game is played, won, or lost in teams of four. Players of all ranks can form teams together. No mech over the rank of trooper can lead a team. **
> 
> ** **
> 
> ** Alt text: A team of four helping one another through a maze. **
> 
> _#TopPriority - investigate imperial ambitions._
> 
> _In ‘Con-speak, prosperity means bigger wars. (?)_
> 
> _Teamwork.                              Teamwork?_
> 
> _Scout rank is below Autobot soldier, but is it above Decepticon trooper? Can I lead a team? Ha!_
> 
> _At least Toivo can be on my team, Megatron said._
> 
> _Maybe Toivo can help me pick two other good mechs?_
> 
> ** 6\. The goal of the game is to gather Cred. Cred is stored and displayed in a Cred Disk, attached to the player’s chest. Each player starts with one Cred. Each team that finishes with sixteen or more Cred wins the Festival. **
> 
> ** **
> 
> ** Alt text: Cred Disk gaining more Cred. **
> 
> _Finally, some actual rules! The vid is short, okay to play._
> 
> _Cred looks a lot like the old triskaidecagon coins._
> 
> _Except for Primus’ and Unicron’s faces, instead of the current Prime in the middle and the Thirteen by the sides_
> 
> _What if I hack my Cred Disk and put Optimus on there? ‘Tampering’..._
> 
> _I would not mind the mines. Easier to escape than Megatron’s leash!_
> 
> _#DoASAP Check if Soundwave’s atrocities file is updated with the mine incident that Megatron mentioned._
> 
> _News of the Autobots!_
> 
> ** 7\. Players can capture Cred from any Cred Disk found in the environment or on another player. Their Cred Guns plug into wrist ports. To capture one Cred, the gun’s beam must have uninterrupted contact with a Cred Disk for one klik. It stings a little, so that players do not accidentally miss a beam. **
> 
> ** **
> 
> ** Alt text: Laser beam from a Cred Gun hitting a Cred Disk. **
> 
>                                                                         _Stings a little = Hurts like the Pit?_
> 
> _Why would a player hold still long enough to let that…_
> 
> _Oh slag! It’s not about capturing Cred, it’s about capturing players!_
> 
> _..._
> 
>            
> 
> ** 8\. The first Game Arena is a maze. It has 1-Cred Disks hidden throughout, as well as traps and a 16-Cred Disk in the middle. The traps are… **
> 
>             _Wait, is Soundwave landing already? Nonono, I need more time!_
> 
> _Slag._

The scout crammed the text portion of the rest of the game rules into his memory banks. Overhasty processing made him reel. _At least I will be able to move around_ was his final thought about the file. Megatron had touted this incongruously minor boon of the games while pushing Bumblebee to agree to that part of his Autobot-integration _experiment_. However _repulsed-outraged-stupid_ (the last one for agreeing to play) the rules made the scout feel, just the thought of a race incited his circuits to buzz, his frame to squirm in seat belts, and his charge to jump up a notch. His race-car body was sick of chains.

The shuttle’s descent was as efficient as its lift-off. It was mid-afternoon at this longitude, and through a rare break in the acid-cloud cover, the sun lit stark ruins - a panoramic postcard to Bumblebee and Soundwave: “Greetings from Kaon. Have a nice war!”

Bumblebee took a high-resolution reference shot, imagining his bold escape through the bombed-out Decepticon capital.

What did Soundwave think about the view?

They landed in a shallow crater, likely a heavily guarded weapons depot, lab, or command bunker to merit a nuke of this caliber. What - and who - ever had been here had had their atoms rearranged into palm-sized chunks of glassy obsidian-like slag. It crunched underfoot as Bumblebee followed Soundwave out of the crater.

Arcee and Cliffjumper had been the last Autobots taken to Shockwave’s underground complex for interrogation. Cross-referencing their intel, old maps, and the aerial photos he’d just taken, Bumblebee figured he had only a klik to stretch his legs before they’d arrive at the nearest entrance. The inhibitor claw numbed his back, but not enough to hinder movement. Soundwave’s uncoiled tentacle still held the end of the short steel cord magnetized to the claw, but wasn’t kept as rigid, its slack letting the scout pick his way among debris.

Arcee and Cliffjumper: the real heroes. They had sabotaged their shackles, tricked the guards, seized the space bridge - an inspirational escape! Bumblebee only had a single enemy between himself and a space-worthy shuttle. He glanced around. The ruins offered plenty of improvised weapons, as long as one felt like fighting the second-best warrior in the Decepticon army with a sooty chunk of a wall or a bent piece of rebar. What if he pretended to stumble and fall into a crevice? That would give him a moment of cover against blaster fire, while he jammed the tentacle holding his leash in a narrow place, smashed the graspers on its end, and then…

In the next moment, Bumblebee was tumbling down a gap between two jagged pieces of metal that once formed a building’s corner. He automatically twisted to avoid sharp edges, landed in a defensive crouch, blaster covers on his forearms straining to open - and only then processed the sensory input from his back, dulled by the inhibitor claw.

No subconscious decision to implement his plan right away had propelled him here. He’d been pulled by his string, like a puppet tossed into a storage bin.

Through the crack, Bumblebee saw Soundwave standing in the middle of the rubble that used to be a street. Other than one tentacle forming a narrow arched bridge between the officer and his hidden captive, Soundwave was in his usual unremarkable pose: long three-jointed legs at shoulder width, long arms down his sides, spidery fingers hanging loose by his shins, the free tentacle coiled in front of him... Yet he was at his highest alert, battle protocols primed for deadly action. The scout just knew it, as if he was in one of the old romantic stories where interface granted extrasensory perceptions about partners. So he cancelled his indignant, ‘ _Now what, Soundwave?’_

Seeing and hearing no enemies (friends? rescue?!), Bumblebee ran a scan, berating himself for not running any as they had walked. An unfamiliar spark signature made tiny drunk movements behind ruined walls across the street. And then, its owner jumped: a massive missile that emitted a strut-shaking undulating battlecry, its pitch Doppler-shifted up into shriek by the speed of the attack.

An Insecticon!

The beastly guardian, one of the few still sleeping around Cybertron, must have been triggered out of stasis by their passage. When Arcee had taken Jack to Vector Sigma, they had barely escaped one. Even Optimus Prime or Megatron would have a hard time against an Insecticon warrior. Soundwave…

The fight started in Soundwave’s favor. The former gladiator side-stepped and brought up his sharp-edged arm guards, his optimized motion in contrast with the Insecticon’s blind rush. Instead of slamming its slim enemy through the pavement, the attacker’s bulk made Soundwave’s arm-guards slice through the Insecticon’s own heavy armor. It screamed and fumbled its landing with a heavy thud, gashes at its side and thorax-chest bleeding blue.

Soundwave’s left hand now held a heavy blaster - when had he pulled it out of subspace? His shots made the Insecticon jump, dodge, and retreat up Bumblebee’s side of the street and beyond his field of view. Was it hit? It didn’t scream.

The scout stepped forward to peek out, or tried: the steel cord on his back stopped him short. He pulled, but Soundwave ignored him, keeping the tentacle holding the cord’s end high, rigid, and unyielding. Bumblebee looked around for debris he could use to smash the graspers holding the cord, but there was nothing close enough underfoot. Besides, that would have required pulling himself up; Soundwave would have noticed, and stopped the maneuver.

He felt the ground shake and heard the creepy shrieking battlecry. The Insecticon charged.

The scout’s battle protocols accelerated his sensory processing. Visuals at 64x rate of frames per nanoklik, he watched the slow-motion integral calculus of Soundwave trying to dodge along his outstretched tentacle, the only way available to him - and the Insecticon optimizing its trajectory with each step, for the fastest intercept. Bumblebee’s hands made minute movements, as if trying to steer Soundwave the other way, along the optimal escape path, which he couldn’t take with one tentacle tied.

 _Monkey’s paw in a jar_ , Bumblebee recalled Fowler saying, and then Raf explaining. This day kept calling for Fowler’s roundabout brand of irony.

Did Bumblebee even want Soundwave to win?

Yes, yes he did. Insecticons were made of murder. Even with proper tools, it would take the scout a couple of kliks to remove the inhibitor claw - assuming its anti-tampering systems weren’t of the deadlier, exploding kind. Unarmed, he had no chance against the Insecticon’s heavy claws; unable to transform, he was too slow to run away. No, moments after Soundwave died, Bumblebee would also die and (if the dark whispers he’d heard were true) be devoured. Hopefully, in that order.

Soundwave’s free tentacle shot out, graspers whirring in high-speed rotation, aiming for the Insecticon’s face. The Insecticon ducked, but Soundwave’s drill grazed the top of its head, taking off an antenna in a shower of sparks. Shrieking its pain and rage, the insecticon was distracted enough that, once again, it failed to pin Soundwave down.

The beast’s right arm, longer and much heavier than Soundwave’s whole body, struck his blaster hand with a loud crunch that could only mean injury.

Bumblebee winced; Soundwave didn’t even cry out.

The scout hungrily watched the dropped weapon, but the Insecticon trampled it. Holding his injured arm in front of him, Soundwave turned his back to Bumblebee and faced the attacker. Energon was dripping to the ground between Soundwave’s feet, glittering-blue in stark contrast with soot-streaked rusty pavement. The Insecticon stood at the ready, its right hand by its mouth, mandibles waving around it excitedly, narrow proboscis-like tongue uncurling to lick energon off the claws. A barely melted patch on its thick chestplate coruscated as it cooled: a blaster shot must have failed to penetrate. The Insecticon’s compound crimson visor trailed along Soundwave’s outstretched tentacle and met the scout’s optics, but quickly returned to stare at the mech who’d cut and shot it. The Insecticon seemed to be savoring the moment, in no hurry to claim its inevitable victory over its tethered prey.

::Soundwave, take my inhibitor claw off!:: Bumblebee cried.

Soundwave reacted in his usual way (not at all), and the Insecticon also ignored the words.

Some Insecticons in the hive under Megatron’s command on Earth were sentient enough to understand speech and to talk. Bumblebee hoped this one wasn’t. ::Take it off, Soundwave, or we are both dead!:: he pleaded. ::I promise I will shoot the Insecticon.::

Will shoot the Insecticon _first_ , anyway. Surely Soundwave must see that it made sense? Even injured, he had much better chances against Bumblebee than he did against an Insecticon! But then, ::Megatron never gave you the code, did he?:: Bumblebee guessed.

Soundwave did reply to that, with a minimalist half-shake of his head. No.

::Let go of me then!:: Bumblebee said, with little hope. If Soundwave had been willing, he already would have. ::Throw me a spare blaster, or just - just let go!::

Soundwave shook his head again. Maybe he didn’t trust the scout even that much, or planned on dangling Bumblebee like bait on a fishing rod. Or, most likely, was under orders to keep him on the leash, because most Autobot prisoners on Earth had escaped. That dreadful interface had demonstrated beyond doubt that Soundwave would obey _all_ Megatron’s orders.

Megatron had gambled with his prisoner’s life when the Seekers had been dropping Bumblebee from the sky. Now, him and Soundwave both? Megatron’s cause had taken their voices, the war he had started burned their world, and his _experiment_ was about to take their lives. The Decepticon brand of freedom: _Feel free to die without help, if skill or luck fail you._

On the personal comm frequency given him, Bumblebee sent a snapshot of the scene, captioned, _‘Megatron, what a dumb way to die!’_ He wanted to rant more: _‘Megatron, testing mechs’ luck like a pair of piezocrystal dice? Not an experiment, just a foolish gladiator superstition!’_ and, _‘Megatron, random sick slag makes your story stupid!’_ \- but his first message pinged back: failed connection. EM anomalies, just another broken facet of their world.

If he couldn’t transform, or be untied… ::I’ll fight like this, Soundwave,:: Bumblebee offered. ::This hole won’t keep me if you are dead.::

That was all he could do. ‘ _Shikata Ga Nai_ ,’ Fowler had said by Bulkhead’s medberth that had almost become his deathberth. Miko had been the only one who’d understood, and yelled her outrage at the stoic agent, “NO! It can be helped, too! Bulk will live, he will! Shut up, Fowler! I left Japan to get away from that meek scrap!” She’d run away to the mesa over their base to cry, and it’d taken Arcee half a night of sharing stories of loss to bring Miko back.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Soundwave flicked his right arm, almost too quick to see, and a small silvery cylinder flew at Bumblebee’s chest. He caught it automatically, and pushed its single button to activate it. He sensed a strong directional forcefield and heard a low buzz as a short thin blade of plasma expanded from the handle’s end, barely visible in the daylight.

A laser scalpel. _Clever, Soundwave!_ A surgical tool would be calibrated against melting durasteel of a medberth (or Bumblebee’s restraints), only for penetrating the living metal of a mech’s armor. That meant close combat. Soundwave only had to stretch his tentacle to keep Bumblebee out of range, should the scout turn against him. He could pull himself up the tether to cut the tentacle itself, if he moved very fast, and then...

The tentacle lowered down, relaxing on the ground, vulnerable within Bumblebee’s reach. Could he cut it and then make it to the shuttle before one of the ‘Cons finished the other? _I promised to shoot the Insecticon, not to spare you_ , he thought at Soundwave’s back, twisted logic stinking of Megatron. Undecided, Bumblebee creeped toward the jagged exit from his shelter.

Its claws licked clean, the Insecticon lowered its arm and leaned forward with a rev of its engine, openly preparing to charge its prey it thought trapped.

And then Bumblebee’s time slowed down again. The three of them ran their few steps, shrinking the sides of their triangle, collapsing its dynamic geometry into a single central point. The Insecticon didn’t charge Soundwave - it charged Bumblebee, who dashed along the tentacle to dodge. He felt no drag from the tentacle’s weight: Soundwave was moving it along to assist, while running to the Insecticon - who was forced to turn and block Soundwave’s deadly armguard and drill with both arms.

Bumblebee jumped at the Insecticon’s back. The Insecticon jumped at Soundwave at the same time. That would have made the scout fumble and fall, but for the pull from the tentacle. A better belay than Jazz’s cable - prehensile! Bumblebee landed on the side of the massive thorax, feet first, trusting the tentacle to hold him in balance while he stabbed the nearest seam between shoulder and neck armor plates that were as thick as his torso. The Insecticon instinctively lifted its arms to swat at the stinging menace: a clumsy pose open to attack.

Soundwave struck, while Bumblebee somersaulted down head over heels, evading the claws. The scout made his three-point landing, left fist on the ground for stability, the plasma blade ready in his right hand - while the Insecticon screamed in pain, stumbled, flailed its arms, and dashed away along the street.

It didn’t flee far before turning, a mountain of blue-black sharpened armor, scant crimson biolights pulsing in sync with energon dripping out of a new shallow gash on its abdomen. The multifaceted visor turned back and forth between Bumblebee and Soundwave.

Then it fixed Soundwave with a longer gaze, hissed, and - spoke? A short phrase, a question, repeated again and again. At first Bumblebee couldn’t parse it. Maybe the Insecticon hadn’t spoken in eons, and was out of practice. After a few tries, its growls, hisses, and clicks resolved into recognizable Neocybex: “Kill the Autobot? Kill the Autobot? Kill the Autobot?...”

The scout’s energon ran cold. A perfect excuse - no, worse, a perfect _reason_ to be rid of him. Not even Megatron would blame the wounded, encumbered officer for saving his life at the cost of his captive’s, would he?

But Soundwave shook his head, declining the alliance.

The Insecticon hissed its frustration and fell silent.

::How about nobody kills anybody?:: Bumblebee offered. ::We mean you no harm! Just fly away.::

Did the beast… No, the mech - did it... He, did the Insecticon understand Bumblebee’s binary beeps?

Probably: he glanced at Bumblebee, then turned back to Soundwave, shook his head, and lifted it as far as it would go from the protective armor walls of his thorax. With one claw, the Insecticon pointed at his outstretched neck - at the collar on his neck. It was a tight, narrow band of the same trademark purple-gray as the shuttle they had flown here, with a single blinking purple light that reminded Bumblebee of the energon dispenser in his Nemesis quarters.

The Insecticon tapped the collar and said, “Orders. Kill the Autobot?”

His low voice still rumbled, but the slow words were clear, and even had an intonation to them: a reasoned plea. The Insecticon must have had an abrupt awakening from his stasis, attacking the nearest mech before he could even access friend-foe protocols. By now his speech routines, emotional matrix, and other higher processor functions seemed fully online, making him a more formidable fighter - forced onto his own zero-choice tracks that could not be helped.

_Slaggit! Just like the ‘Cons to leave foe-kill orders without friend-safeties._

Bumblebee saw the tentacle holding him move up, slowly enough to telegraph its intent, as it lifted him just off the ground and turned him to the side. Soundwave was showing the inhibitor claw to the Insecticon.

The scout swallowed his objections. Better an exhibit than a corpse.

The Insecticon tilted his head, looking puzzled, then jolted, as small lightning began dancing around his neck.

::I am already a prisoner,:: Bumblebee hated to be the one to explain. ::Megatron said he doesn’t want me executed!::

“All hail Megatron,” the Insecticon droned. Bumblebee waited, and hoped, but the lightning from the collar grew brighter, and the Insecticon urged Soundwave, “Well? Will you help me kill the Autobot?”

So mere words couldn’t override the collar. If Soundwave had had its codes, he would have used them earlier. He shook his head and lowered Bumblebee to the ground. The Insecticon’s recorded voice sounded from Soundwave’s speakers, “Orders.”

And then the three mechs charged. It could not be helped.

Soundwave and Bumblebee managed to repeat their previous maneuver, the scout landing on the Insecticon’s back. Except this time the Insecticon didn’t allow himself to be distracted by Bumblebee, whose stabs must have hurt, but couldn’t reach deep enough for vitals. The giant claws lashed at Soundwave. They missed, but the officer had to jump away so fast he couldn’t kill his momentum in time. His tentacle stretched and jerked Bumblebee off the Insecticon’s back. The scout rolled and ran, Soundwave running alongside, the Insecticon’s battle cry and ground-shaking stomps getting closer.

The stomps disappeared - the Insecticon must have jumped. Bumblebee ducked aside, then suddenly felt himself yanked up. He coiled the hydraulics in his limbs, preparing for a hard landing, but the ground only fell away and rocked upside-down to the crescendos of a jet engine and a beastly roar. Soundwave leveled with a sharp turn, Bumblebee retching and desperately holding onto the only thing he could: his tiny weapon. When the scout was on the upswing, he felt a wet dribble. Over him, the left wingtip of Soundwave’s sleek hunter-killer alt form was mangled, bleeding energon and throwing sparks, the wound made worse by the transformation.

The Insecticon was hovering in front of them, ready for an attack. Bumblebee felt sick and helpless dangling down, even though the big swings had stopped. Soundwave’s wing kept sparking, risking a fire. Yet again, none of that could be helped: once their enemy had taken to the air, they had to be up as well. In these roofless, shelter-less ruins, staying grounded would be a terrible disadvantage.

::Can you outpace him in the air?:: Bumblebee asked.

Soundwave dipped his wings for ‘No’, and must have compensated with the tentacle, because it didn’t make Bumblebee swing. The scout found himself inordinately grateful, even though the small gesture was only pragmatic, to keep him better fit to fight - or due to Megatron’s orders against torture.

And then it was an aerial fight scene. For half a klik, Bumblebee was too dizzy to parse more than confusing snippets: blaster shots from Soundwave’s undamaged right wing, undulating shrieks of the Insecticon so loud that struts reverberated, the sky unsure if up-down or sideways was the better dimension, the ground disturbingly far, the Insecticon’s back rushing at him… He landed on it, breaking the fall with his hands and knees. The world instantly turned less groggy with something solid underfoot, even though the Insecticon went wild, screaming, bucking, and swatting at the menace on his back with five scythe-tipped legs, the sixth dangling broken. Bumblebee tried to stab at something, anything, but mostly he dodged and held on for dear life to any protrusion he could grab. He rolled to the narrow base of a wing, where the Insecticon’s legs didn’t seem to reach, and began to cough, his vents suddenly full of thick smoke.

Now what? Soundwave! He was just above, still matching the enemy’s movements and belaying Bumblebee by the tentacle, but his left wing wasn’t just sparking anymore. It was on fire, thick smoke spreading in billowing clouds. Big enough wounds did that to fliers. That’s how Bumblebee had killed Skyquake, by damaging the jet while riding on his back in the air.

Soundwave was vibrating where he hovered. He dropped down, then stabilized with a visible effort. He had to transform! Bumblebee twisted around the wing base, both arms and legs holding tight, the wingbeat threatening to shake his very spark out of its casing. ::Now, Soundwave!:: he cried, willing the mech to understand the plan, willing the enemy not to.

The Insecticon switched his attention back to the scout a moment before Bumblebee switched his - just in time to notice two claw-blades converging on him. Soundwave dipped to the side, as if succumbing to his wound, transforming and falling. Bumblebee couldn’t let go of the wing to dodge, not now - he would drop Soundwave! He slid sideways and ducked, hanging by legs and his left hand, and narrowly avoiding one claw. The tip of the second claw glanced along his armor, cutting a long shallow rip from the tire well on his right shoulder to his left hip. Bumblebee screamed his sharp pain, and the Insecticon gave a triumphant cry. But the scout didn’t let go, and Soundwave used the momentum of his fall to swing around the Insecticon on his tentacle. He landed by the wing opposite to Bumblebee, already spraying his left arm with astringent-stinking foam from a bottle he must have pulled out of his subspace, then grabbing the base of the wing with his right hand.

Even before the fire went out, the graspers of Soundwave’s second tentacle turned into a drill. Bumblebee thought Soundwave would aim at the Insecticon’s head, but he hit a wing, the hole in the iridescent purple-green membrane splattering energon all over. The Insecticon shrieked, then again and again as Soundwave repeated the attack. With each strike, he bucked so much that all Bumblebee could do was hold on, wincing from EM echoes of the agony.

::Soundwave, stop!:: he cried, and then saw the reason for the cruelty: the wings faltered, forcing the Insecticon down without making him fall. Soundwave’s drill was poised behind the Insecticon’s head for the final strike, and Bumblebee yelled, ::The collar!::

The drill weapon paused for the briefest moment, and then it changed direction and struck along the neck, at the narrow gray-purple strip of the control device.

Bumblebee didn’t think his Insecticon rescue plan through beyond destroying the thing that had forced the three of them into a battle none of them wanted. It didn’t matter; in the next moment, there was a bright flash and a loud boom. Half of the Insecticon’s head was gone in the explosion. He fell, Bumblebee and Soundwave jumping off on either side before the ugly crash.

 _At least I got to move around_ , Bumblebee thought back to Megatron’s promises, and then, _forty-seven_. He lightly traced two fingers along the long cut on his front, checking that the bleeding had stopped, and imagined Soundwave updating his stats file, their two names now next to one another in the Insecticon’s dry epitaph. Bumblebee was still staring at the corpse when he felt the laser scalpel yanked out of his hand: Soundwave’s tentacle had sneaked in from behind.

He shook his head, turned to his equally energon-splattered captor, and said, ::Let’s go, before his friends show up.::

Soundwave began to walk, at first briskly, then slowing down as if distracted or hesitant. Was it his wound troubling him? Instead of going to the entrance on Bumblebee’s map, he turned to a short side street that ended in a knee-high cylindrical platform. The structure looked intact, so it must have been built after the bombings.

Bumblebee jolted into high alert, the mantra ‘Not hurting now’ automatically running in the background to hold back dread. If this was a cloning lab, he would fight! His chances were slightly better now that Soundwave had lost the use of an arm. Through the resistance of the fresh working memory of the two of them fighting side by side, Bumblebee returned his friend-foe variables to their proper state. Would it also be harder for Soundwave to hurt this Autobot, after they had trusted life and limb to one another in a fight?

Meanwhile, the platform slid up, the cylinder now about thrice Bumblebee’s height, and then its wall slid open. Inside, everything was bare gray-purple metal, except for a few light strips on the ceiling. Bumblebee followed Soundwave in. The wall closed back. The elevator moved: a long descent, deep underground.

The straight corridor they followed off the bottom of the elevator shaft had no doors, access panels, or marks. Dull gloomy echoes of his steps could confuse sensors, so Bumblebee switched to his quietest stealth-gait, matching the silence of Soundwave’s motions. Closer to the long corridor’s end, a thick, armored purple-gray wall panel that looked like all the other panels slid aside: apparently, Soundwave had the correct radio codes. That opened not into a room, but another corridor, shorter this time, and the panel closed behind them. As they walked the maze, Bumblebee mapped out distances and directions, but he’d have hard time getting through these walls without high-yield explosives, siege tools, or hacking into the control electronics. The latter seemed more likely, so he was glad to see that the room they finally entered had a console.

A console and nothing else, nothing like a scary lab.

Soundwave relaxed his tentacle enough to let Bumblebee linger by the now-closed door while he walked to the console and plugged the other tentacle into it. In a klik, the screen lit up with video, not of Shockwave, but of a very annoyed Knock Out, still in his Nemesis medbay. “You are late, Soundwave,” the doctor complained, then did a double-take at the two of them. “Ooh la la! Broken armor, spilled energon, little scout on a tentacle - hot! Had fun with the prisoner, Commander?” Knock Out smacked his lips. “I guess I’ll have to detail him all over again!”

Bumblebee would hate to imagine the scenarios running through Knock Out’s head, but a better story popped up. In a peaceful parallel universe, a carformer explorer and a flier data specialist went out for a picnic by an archeological dig. They used the picturesque ruins as a parkour obstacle course, and _had fun_ with the crazy gorgeous acrobatics a race car, a jet, and two strong tentacles afforded. The lithe black-purple mech latched a tentacle to the bumper of the yellow-black speedster pulling him into a power jump from one roof to the next. A precision jump, edge to the very edge, the flier calculating its graceful more-than-parabola to the micrometer, the grounder accelerating just so - then faster, higher - house to house, in graceful arcs. At the last roof, the flier jumped the highest, transforming as his partner did in perfect sync, to continue their dance in the air. The dance made their charge run up, and then - and then Bumblebee stopped the dream from turning _that_ way.

Whew, good that he could! He still had the habit of re-coding his worries into dreams, and still found his fantasy peacetime version of Soundwave attractive, but the glitchy compulsions were gone. Despite the sick slag that had happened, he was looking forward to making up sex scenes without _having to_. Nonetheless, it might be more dignified to tell even sex-free stories where, as the human movies had it, ‘ _Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events was purely coincidental._ ’

Like the quietly dreaming scout, Soundwave’s outward reaction to Knock Out making a fool of himself was stony silence - but the doctor lost his dirty smirk as if threatened. “Okay, okay, it’s ‘data cable’ not ‘tentacle’, I know you hate it when mechs ogle them. Do you need medical advice, or just the usual?”

The usual? Couldn’t be anything to do with Bumblebee, then! He slumped in relief.

In response, Soundwave must have sent a coded signal as he had for wall panels, because the middle of the room’s floor slid aside. Up came a platform, with a medberth hooked to a dozen complicated machines by cables and tubes. An organic plush blanket was tucked over someone tiny, maybe knee-high to Bumblebee.

Soundwave made a step toward the medberth, then paused, glancing around the room. Seeking somewhere to stove his captive again? But there were no cracks in these walls, so Soundwave just visibly stiffened his tentacle - um, the data cable! - telegraphing Bumblebee to stay where he was, and then walked to the platform.

The diagnostic machines went from dormant to a frenzy of beeps and blinking lights, their ray emissions strong enough to carry all the way to Bumblebee. Soundwave’s hand tweaked several sets of holographic controls, then moved toward the corner of the blanket as if to lift it, but it stopped and hung by his side instead.

“All systems check out, Soundwave,” Knock Out drawled. “Go ahead and put the new additive into the drip, but…” he shrugged. “Won’t make a difference, and as I said, I could have adjusted the set of diagnostics remotely.” Soundwave didn’t react, yet Knock Out rambled on, “Yes, yes, deep scans might disrupt a mech’s systems, one in a million chance, has never happened in my practice. Why do I even bother telling you all that again?”

 _Because you are the loneliest mech I’ve ever met_ , Bumblebee silently mouthed.

Soundwave pulled a steel vial out of his subspace and plugged it into one of the machines, while Knock Out formally inquired, “May I be dismissed?”

Without turning, Soundwave nodded, and the doctor disappeared from the screen.

The machines went dormant. For a klik, Soundwave just stood there, his head bowed as if frozen mid-nod, so quiet in his body that Bumblebee thought he could hear the self-repair nanites knitting torn armor. This - whatever this was, whoever was on the berth - this wasn’t right. Of course, this was a part of a bigger not-right of the war, and Bumblebee had never been blind to the bodily aftermath of battles. And of course, his stay with the Decepticons had been made of wrongs, from the beginning to now, from Starscream half-frying him with the Immobilizer to the fight with that enslaved Insecticon. But Megatron forcing the scout into this hidden room? This moment of Soundwave’s life as a _demonstration_ \- making Bumblebee look at this pale-lavender plush blanket, the only pastel thing he’d seen since his capture? This twisted laser scalpels in every wound.

Bumblebee turned away - or rather, as far aside as he could with war protocols urging him not to turn his back to the enemy, and to keep spying. There was intel to gather less intrusively. He pulled up Soundwave’s file of atrocities and acts of war, and searched for the name from one of the medical monitors. There the entry was, dated older than Bumblebee’s forging, as dry as the rest of them. Junior Officer Ravage. Captured in a reconnaissance mission to Iacon. Systems crash and processor death during hostile interrogation by Autobot Spec Ops. Stasis-locked frame exchanged for Operative Mirage. Instead of the usual base-alt transformation loop, the file showed a wiry black-purple catformer docking around Soundwave’s shoulders, just like Laserbeak docked on his chest. A symbiont: the strongest among spark bonds.

Soundwave unplugged his… data cable from the console, and Bumblebee’s glance automatically followed it to the medberth. The graspers delicately pulled a black paw from under the blanket, while Soundwave’s hand took the laser scalpel out of his subspace. The handle was messy with dried energon, but the pure plasma of the blade stayed sterile. Soundwave flicked the blade around the paw a few times, then replaced the paw under the blanket and pulled another paw out. What… oh. Trimming the claws. The scout glanced at the tire in his right shoulder, where local builder nanites constantly added layers to the surface that normally wore down - though, of course, a few days stuck in his base form weren’t enough to make a visible difference.

Soundwave finished his task, then stood holding a paw in his hand, motionless for a few more moments. He tucked a corner of the blanket in over the paw and pulled something from his subspace: a data chip. Instead of sticking it into a life support machine as Bumblebee expected, Soundwave lifted the cover of a plain flat box at the medberth’s head, half-full of other such chips, put the new chip there, and replaced the cover.

Just a gift. The updated file with acts of war? Snippets of Soundwave’s daily livestream - what a symbiont would normally get through their spark bond? Or maybe berthtime stories the symbiont-host wrote for his forever-sleeping companion?

The medberth receded back into the floor, the door slid open, and Soundwave turned to leave. As he passed through the doorway, he brushed Bumblebee with the outer edges of his EM field, its inherent warmth discordant with Soundwave’s stoic appearance. _Pain-sorrow-resolve_ shimmered in and out of focus until Soundwave pulled his field in as tight as usual. The faint pulse, now gone, had been interwoven with a background note that made Bumblebee’s emotional matrix resonate and ping him a summary from when they plugged cables. It was Soundwave’s main signature: bitter irony.

On impulse, Bumblebee opened his field, the sudden wave of _outrage-sorrow-resolve_ making Soundwave stop and turn toward his captive.

::I am sorry,:: Bumblebee blurted out, abandoning his promise to himself not to apologize to his captors, and then, ::I am sorry I am here.:: In the face of Soundwave’s stiff silence, Bumblebee imagined that bitter irony flooding over everything, and his thoughts raced wildly, as they did when he was freaking out in panic. ::We must say sorry for what happened in the war, for what can’t be helped now, but - but not like this, not forcing one mech into another’s grief for _demonstration_ , and what’s next - a vid from your security cameras footage for propaganda, ‘ _Autobot Bumblebee Is Sad About A Decepticon War Victim_ ,’ soap opera Megatron-style, and why does he think torturing people into remorse works when it never, ever, ever does, it’s just pathetic sick slag like the stupid story Knock Out wrote, and if this is Megatron’s attempt at making Autobots and Decepticons live together post-war, he is…::

Bumblebee floundered. Maybe Megatron deserved it, but it would be cruel to Soundwave to call _stupid, pathetic, and sick_ the subject of his spark-deep loyalty, his forever-leader and (as their interface revealed) his lover. A small cruelty, yet those added up over centuries of war, drop by acid drop raining into the flood that scourged the whole world.

The scout rephrased, ::...he is mistaken and _needs help_ and I’ll tell him this, yes, as his chosen ‘ _Autobot representative’_ , I will tell him we need to do better than that - if only you and me don’t get eaten by something on our way back, Soundwave!::

Unlike the more prepared, more articulate not-apology that Bumblebee had delivered on the shuttle, this mess received a response. It could have been because the two of them had just saved one another’s lives, or because Soundwave was in turmoil from his visit to his bonded, or maybe because Bumblebee had progressed to where Megatron and his loyal officer wanted the subject of their _experiment_ to go - accepting his role as a representative. In any case, Soundwave inclined his head, deeper than his usual curt half-nod: a short bow.

The sideway tilt made the bow look a bit ironic.

They walked back in silence, Bumblebee thinking of how to bring up loyalty on his ‘little talk-show with Megatron’ for the Autobots. He was startled out of his thoughts when half-way through the maze, Soundwave took a new turn. The next open wall panel revealed a small walk-in closet, its shelves full of weapons. Bumblebee realized he’d tried to rush inside when he was jerked back by the restraint between his door wings.

Soundwave selected a heavy hand-blaster and put it into his subspace. He paused, then added another weapon, a small pistol with limited charge.

Bumblebee never learned if it was meant for him to use. There was nobody to shoot on their walk back to the shuttle.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [When All You Have Is a Scraplet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5498120) by [dragonofdispair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair)




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